Llfti. 


ORKS 


Barbauld. 


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FROM    THE   LIBRARY   OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 


THE    LIBRARY    OF 


PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


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MEMOIR,  LETTERS, 


A  SELECTION  FROM  THE  POEMS  AND  PROSE   WRITINGS 


ANNA  LtETITIA  BARBAULD. 


VOLUME    II. 


8EP  26 1936 


SELECTION 


FROM  THE 


POEMS  AND  PROSE  WRITINGS 


OF 


MRS.  ANNA  LETiTIA  BARBAULD, 


BY 


GEACE    A.   ELLIS. 

- 

"  Wisdom,  discipline,  and  liberal  arts  ; 
Th'  embellishments  of  life  ;  virtues  like  these 
Make  human  nature  shine,  reform  the  soul." 

Addison. 


BOSTON": 
JAMES   R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

1874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874, 

BY     GRACE     A.     ELLIS, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


University  Press  :  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


CONTENTS 


POEMS. 

Page 
The  Invitation  to  Miss  B- 1 

The  Groans  of  the  Tankard     .        .        ...        .  9 

On  the  Backwardness  of  the  Spring,  1771        .        .        .13 

Verses  written  in  an  Alcove  .    , 14 

The  Mouse's  Petition     .         .     . 17 

To  Mrs.  P ,  with  some  Drawings  of  Birds  and  Insects    20 

To  Sleep .    ,    .        .        .        .25 

A  Dirge .        .        .         26 

Characters .        .        .        .27 

An  Inventory  of  the  Furniture  in  Dr.  Priestley's  Study    32 

Hymn  to  Content 35 

To  Wisdom 37 

The  Origin  of  Song-Writing 39 

Songs 43 

To  the  Baron  De  Stonne 52 

Edwin  and  Ethelinde         .     , 53 

To  a  Lady,  with  some  Painted  Flowers     .        .        .        .58 

Ode  to  Spring 59 

Epithalamium 61 

To  a  Dog      .        .        .        .     ,   .     , 63 

An -Address  to  the  Deity •    64 

A  Summer  Evening's  Meditation 67 

The  Epiphany 72 


VI  CONTENTS. 

To  Mr.  Barbauld,  with  a  Map  of  the  Land  of  Matrimony  75 

Love  and  Time 77 

To  Miss  F.  B 80 

To-morrow 81 

"Written  on  a  Marble 82 

Lines  placed  over  a  Chimney-Piece 82 

What  do  the  Futures  speak  of  ? 83 

Autumn  :  A  Fragment 85 

On  a  Lady's  Writing 86 

An  Autumnal  Thought 87 

On  the  Deserted  Village 88 

Hymn 89 

Washing-Day 92 

To  Mr.  S.  T.  Coleridge 95 

Peace  and  Shepherd 97 

West-End  Fair 99 

Dirge 102 

The  Unknown  God 104 

Ode  to  Remorse 105 

Eternity 112 

Eighteen  Hundred  and  Eleven 113 

Life         .        .        .        .        . 126 

On  the  King's  Illness 128 

A  Thought  on  Death 130 

Stanzas 131 

The  First  Fire      .        . 133 

The  Caterpillar 136 

On  the  Death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte        .        .        .  138 

The  Wake  of  the  King  of  Spain 139 

The  Baby-House 141 

Riddle 143 

Lines 145 

To  a  Friend 146 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

Dejection       . 147 

To  Mr.  Bowring        .        . 148 

Fragment 149 

octogenary  reflections 150 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous 151 

Hymns 152 


PROSE     WORKS. 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Hill  of  Science 173 

On  Romances 181 

An  Inquiry  into  those  Kinds  of  Distress  which  excite 

Agreeable.  Sensations  :  With  a  Tale  .        .        .        .186 

The  Cure  of  the  Banks  of  the  Rhone  ....  203 

On  Evil 211 

On  Monastic  Institutions 216 

Against  Inconsistency  in  our  Expectations      .        .        .  234 

On  Education 245 

On  Prejudice 261 

On  Female  Studies 277 

On  the  Classics 288 

Selama 304 

Letter  on  Watering-places 311 

Dialogue 321 

Dialogue  in  the  Shades 332 

Knowledge  and  her  Daughter 344 


LEGACY  FOR  YOUNG  LADLES. 

True  Magicians 346 

The  Pine  and  the  Olive  :  A  Fable        ....         357 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


On  Riddles . 

Enigma  :  To  the  Ladies 

The  King  in  his  Castle       .... 

The  Misses  :  Addressed  tq  a  Careless  Girl 

The  Four  Sisters  .        

Letter  of  a  Young  King 

On  the  Uses  of  History      .... 

Fashion  :  A  Vision 

Description  of  Two  Sisters 

On  Friendship 

Confidence  and  Modesty  :  A  Fable    .  ■ 
Picnic 


Letter  from  Grimalkin  to  Selima 

Allegory  on  Sleep    . 

On  Expense  :  A  Dialogue     . 


859 
368 
369 
374 
381 
387 
393 
427 
437 
440 
446 
449 
453 
458 
463 


Works  of  Mrs.  Barbauld. 


THE    INYITATIOX. 


TO  MISS  B 


HEALTH  to  my  friend,  and  long  unbroken  years, 
By  storms  unruffled  and  unstained  by  tears : 
"Winged  by  new  joys  may  each  white  minute  fly ; 
Spring  on  her  cheek,  and  sunshine  in  her  eye  : 
O'er  that  dear  breast,  where  love  and  pity  springs, 
May  peace  eternal  spread  her  downy  wings  : 
Sweet  beaming  hope  her  path  illumine  still, 
And  fair  ideas  all  her  fancy  fill ! 
From  glittering  scenes  which  strike  the  dazzled  sight 
With  mimic  grandeur  and  illusive  height, 
From  idle  hurry  and  tumultuous  noise, 
From  hollow  friendships,  and  from  sickly  joys, 
Will  Delia,  at  the  Muse's  call,  retire 
To  the  pure  pleasures  rural  scenes  inspire  ? 
Will  she  from  crowds  and  busy  cities  fly, 
"Where  wreaths  of  curling  smoke  involve  the  sky, 

VOL.  II.  1  A 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

To  taste  the  grateful  shades  of  spreading  trees, 
And  drink  the  spirit  of  the  mountain  breeze  ? 

When  Winter's  hand  the  roughening  year  deforms, 
And  hollow  winds  foretell  approaching  storms, 
Then  Pleasure,  like  a  bird  of  passage,  flies 
To  brighter  chmes,  and  more  indulgent  skies ; 
Cities  and  courts  allure  her  sprightly  train, 
From  the  bleak  mountain  and  the  naked  plain, 
And  gold  and  gems  with  artificial  blaze 
Supply  the  sickly  sun's  declining  rays. 
But  soon,  returning  on  the  western  gale, 
She  seeks  the  bosom  of  the  grassy  vale : 
There,  wrapt  in  careless  ease,  attunes  her  lyre 
.To  the  wild  warblings  of  the  woodland  quire : 
The  daisied  turf  her  humble  throne  supplies, 
And  early  primroses  around  her  rise. 
We  '11  follow  where  the  smiling  goddess  leads, 
Through  tangled  forest  or  enamelled  meads ; 
O'er  pathless  hills  her  airy  form  we  chase, 
In  silent  glades  her  fairy  footsteps  trace  : 
Small  pains  there  needs  her  footsteps  to  pursue, 
She  cannot  fly  from  friendship,  and  from  you. 
Now  the  glad  earth  her  frozen  zone  unbinds, 
And  o'er  her  bosom  breathe  the  western  winds. 
Already  now  the  snow-drop  dares  appear, 
The  first  pale  blossom  of  the  unripened  year ; 


THE  INVITATION.  3 

As  Flora's  breath,  by  some  transforming  power, 

Had  changed  the  icicle  into  a  flower : 

Its  name  and  hne  the  scentless  plant  retains, 

And  winter  lingers  in  its  icy  veins. 

To  these  succeed  the  violet's  dusky  blue, 

And  each  inferior  flower  of  fainter  hue ; 

Till  riper  months  the  perfect  year  disclose, 

And  Flora  cries  exulting,  See  my  Eose ! 

The  Muse  invites ;  my  Delia,  haste  away, 

And  let  us  sweetly  waste  the  careless  day ; 

Here  gentle  summits  lift  their  airy  brow, 

Down  the  green  slope  here  winds  the  laboring  plough ; 

Here,  bathed  by  frequent  showers,  cool  vales  are  seen, 

Clothed  with  fresh  verdure  and  eternal  green ; 

Here  smooth  canals  across  the  extended  plain 

Stretch  their  long  arms  to  join  the  distant  main  :* 

The  sons  of  toil  with  many  a  weary  stroke 

Scoop  the  hard  bosom  of  the  solid  rock ; 

Eesistless,  through  the  stiff  opposing  clay 

With  steady  patience  work  their  gradual  way ; 

Compel  the  genius  of  the  unwilling  flood 

Through  the  brown  horrors  of  the  aged  wood  ; 

*  The  Duke  of  Bridgewater's  canal,  which  in  many  places  crosses 
the  road,  and  in  one  is  carried  by  an  aqueduct  over  the  river  Trewell. 
Its  head  is  at  Worsley,  where  it  is  conveyed  by  deep  tunnels  under 
the  coal-pits,  for  the  purpose  of  loading  the  boats. 


WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

'Cross  the  lone  waste  the  silver  urn  they  pour, 
And  cheer  the  barren  heath  or  sullen  moor. 
The  traveller  with  pleasing  wonder  sees 
The  white  sail  gleaming  through  the  dusky  trees, 
And  views  the  altered  landscape  with  surprise, 
And  doubts  the  magic  scenes  which  round  him  rise. 
Now,  like  a  flock  of  swans  above  his  head, 
Their  woven  wings  the  flying  vessels  spread ; 
Now  meeting  streams  in  artful  mazes  glide, 
While  each  unmingled  pours  a  separate  tide ; 
ISTow  through  the  hidden  veins  of  earth  they  flow, 
And  visit  sulphurous  mines  and  caves  below ; 
The  ductile  streams  obey  the  guiding  hand, 
And  social  plenty  circles  round  the  land. 

But  nobler  praise  awaits  our  green  retreats  ; 
The  Muses  here  have  fixed  their  sacred  seats. 
Mark  where  its  simple  front  yon  mansion  rears,  — 
The  nursery  of  men  for  future  years  ! 
Here  callow  chiefs  and  embryo  statesmen  lie, 
And  unfledged  poets  short  excursions  try ; 
While  Mersey's  gentle  current,  which  too  long 
By  fame  neglected,  and  unknown  to  song, 
Between  his  rushy  banks  —  no  poet's  theme  — 
Had  crept  inglorious,  like  a  vulgar  stream, 
Eeflects  the  ascending  seats  with  conscious  pride, 
And  dares  to  emulate  a  classic  tide. 


THE   INVITATION.  5 

Soft  music  breathes  along  each  opening  shade, 

And  soothes  the  dashing  of  his  rough  cascade. 

With  mystic  lines  his  sands  are  figured  o'er, 

And  circles  traced  upon  the  lettered  shore. 

Beneath  his  willows  rove  the  inquiring  youth, 

And  court  the  fair  majestic  form  of  Truth. 

Here  Nature  opens  all  her  secret  springs, 

And  heaven-born  Science  plumes  her  eagle-wings. 

Too  long  had  bigot  rage,  with  malice  swelled, 

Crushed  her  strong  pinions,  and  her  flight  withheld ; 

Too  long  to  check  her  ardent  progress  strove,  — 

So  writhes  the  serpent  round  the  bird  of  Jove ; 

Hangs  on  her  flight,  restrains  her  towering  wing, 

Twists  its  dark  folds,  and  points  its  venomed  sting. 

Yet  still  —  if  aught  aright  the  Muse  divine  — 

Her  rising  pride  shall  mock  the  vain  design ; 

On  sounding  pinions  yet  aloft  shall  soar, 

And  through  the  azure  deep  untravelled  paths  explore. 

When  science  smiles,  the  Muses  join  the  train, 

And  gentlest  arts  and  purest  manners  reign. 

Ye  generous  youth  who  love  this  studious  shade, 

How  rich  a  field  is  to  your  hopes  displayed ! 

Knowledge  to  you  unlocks  the  classic  page, 

And  virtue  blossoms  for  a  better  age. 

0  golden  days  !  0  bright  unvalued  hours  ! 

What  bliss  —  did  ye  but  know  that  bliss  —  were  yours  ! 

With  richest  stores  your  glowing  bosoms  fraught : 


6  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Perception  quick,  and  luxury  of  thought ; 
The  high  designs  that  heave  the  laboring  soul, 
Panting  for  fame,  impatient  of  control ; 
And  fond  enthusiastic  thought,  that  feeds 
On  pictured  tales  of  vast  heroic  deeds ; 
And  quick  affections,  kindling  into  flame 
At  virtue's  or  their  country's  honored  name ; 
And  spirits  light,  to  every  joy  in  tune  ; 
And  friendship  ardent  as  a  summer's  noon ; 
And  generous  scorn  of  vice's  vernal  tribe, 
And  proud  disdain  of  interest's  sordid  bribe ; 
And  conscious  honor's  quick  instinctive  sense, 
And  smiles  unforced,  and  easy  confidence ; 
And  vivid  fancy,  and  clear  simple  truth, 
And  all  the  mental  bloom  of  vernal  youth. 

How  bright  the  scene  to  Fancy's  eye  appears, 
Through  the  long  perspective  of  distant  years, 
When  this,  this  little  group  their  country  calls 
Prom  academic  shades  and  learned  halls, 
To  fix  her  laws,  her  spirit  to  sustain, 
And  light  up  glory  through  her  wide  domain  ! 
Their  various  tastes  in  different  arts  displayed, 
Like  tempered  harmony  of  light  and  shade, 
"With  friendly  union  in  one  mass  shall  blend, 
And  this  adorn  the  State,  and  that  defend. 
These  the  sequestered  shade  shall  cheaply  please, 


THE   INVITATION. 

With  learned  labor  and  inglorious  ease ; 

While  those,  impelled  by  some  resistless  force, 

O'er  seas  and  rocks  shall  urge  their  venturous  course ; 

Rich  fruits  matured  by  glowing  suns  behold, 

And  China's  groves  of  vegetable  gold ; 

From  every  land  the  various  harvest  spoil, 

And  bear  the  tribute  to  their  native  soil ; 

But  tell  each  land  —  while  every  toil  they  share, 

Firm  to  sustain,  and  resolute  to  dare  — 

Man  is  the  nobler  growth  our  realms  supply, 

And  SOULS  are  ripened  in  our  northern  sky. 

Some,  pensive,  creep  along  the  shelly  shore  ; 

Unfold  the  silky  texture  of  a  flower  ; 

With  sharpened  eyes  inspect  an  hornet's  sting, 

And  all  the  wonders  of  an  insect's  wmg. 

Some  trace  with  curious  search  the  hidden  cause 

Of  Nature's  changes,  and  her  various  laws  ; 

Untwist  her  beauteous  web,  disrobe  her  charms, 

And  hunt  her  to  her  elemental  forms ; 

Or  prove  what  hidden  powers  in  herbs  are  found, 

To  quench  disease  and  cool  the  burning  wound ; 

With  cordial  drops  the  fainting  head  sustain, 

Call  back  the  flitting  soul,  and  still  the  throbs  of  pain. 

The  patriot  passion  this  shall  strongly  feel ; 
Ardent,  and  glowing  with  undaunted  zeal, 


8  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

With  lips  of  fire  shall  plead  his  country's  cause, 
And  vindicate  the  majesty  of  laws  ; 
This,  clothed  with  Britain's  thunder,  spread  alarms 
Through  the  wide  earth,  and  shake  the  pole  with  arms ; 
That,  to  the  sounding  lyre  Ins  deeds  rehearse, 
Enshrine  his  name  in  some  immortal  verse, 
To  long  posterity  his  praise  consign, 
And  pay  a  life  of  hardships  by  a  line. 
While  others,  consecrate  to  higher  aims, 
Whose  hallowed  bosoms  glow  with  purer  flames, 
Love  in  their  hearts,  persuasion  in  their  tongue, 
With  words  of  peace  shall  charm  the  listening  throng, 
Draw  the  dread  veil  that  wraps  the  eternal  throne, 
And  launch  our  souls  into  the  bright  unknown. 

Here  cease  my  song.     Such  arduous  themes  require 
A  master's  pencil  and  a  poet's  fire ; 
Unequal  far  such  bright  designs  to  paint, 
Too  weak  her  colors,  and  her  lines  too  faint, 
My  drooping  Muse  folds  up  her  fluttering  wing, 
And  hides  her  head  in  the  green  lap  of  Spring. 


THE  GROANS  OF  THE  TANKARD. 


THE  GKOANS   OF  THE  TAKKAKD. 

Dulci  digne  mero.  —  Horat. 

OF  strange  events  I  sing,  and  portents  dire ; 
The  wondrous  themes  a  reverent  ear  require ; 
Though  strange  the  tale,  the  faithful  Muse  believe, 
And  what  she  says  with  pious  awe  receive. 

'T  was  at  the  solemn,  silent,  noontide  hour, 
When  hunger  rages  with  despotic  power,     • 
When  the  lean  student  quits  his  Hebrew  roots 
For  the  gross  nourishment  of  English  fruits, 
And  throws  unfinished  airy  systems  by 
For  solid  pudding  and  substantial  pie ; 
When  hungry  poets  the  glad  summons  own, 
And  leave  spare  Fast  to  dine  with  Gods  alone : 
Our  sober  meal  despatched  with  silent  haste, 
The  decent  grace  concludes  the  short  repast : 
Then,  urged  by  thirst,  we  cast  impatient  eyes 
Where  deep,  capacious,  vast,  of  ample  size, 
The  Tankard  stood,  replenished  to  the  brink 
With  the  cold  beverage  blue-eyed  Naiads  drink. 
But  lo  !  a  sudden  prodigy  appears, 
And  our  chilled  hearts  recoil  with  startling  fears : 
l* 


10  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Its  yawning  month  disclosed  the  deep  profound, 
And  in  low  murmurs  breathed  a  sullen  sound ; 
Cold  drops  of  dew  did  on  the  sides  appear ; 
No  finger  touched  it,  and  no  hand  was  near. 
At  length  the  indignant  vase  its  silence  broke, 
First  heaved  deep  hollow  groans,  and  then  distinctly 
spoke. 

"How   changed    the    scene !  —  for  what    unpardoned 

crimes 
Have  I  survived  to  these  degenerate  times  ? 
I,  who  was  wont  the  festal  board  to  grace, 
And  'midst  the  circle  lift  my  honest  face, 
White  o'er  with  froth,  like  iEtna  crowned  with  snow, 
Which  mantled  o'er  the  brown  abyss  below, 
Where  Ceres  mingled  with  her  golden  store 
The  richer  spoils  of  either  India's  shore,. 
The  dulcet  reed  the  Western  islands  boast, 
And  spicy  fruits  from  Banda's  fragrant  coast. 
At  solemn  feasts  the  nectared  draught  I  poured, 
And  often  journeyed  round  the  ample  board : 
The  portly  Alderman,  the  stately  Mayor, 
And  all  the  furry  tribe  my  worth  declare ; 
And  the  keen  sportsman  oft,  his  labors  done, 
To  me  retreating  with  the  setting  sun, 
Deep  draughts  imbibed,  and  conquered  land  and  sea, 
And  overthrew  the  pride  of  France,  —  by  me. 


THE  GROANS  OF  THE  TANKARD.         11 

"  Let  meaner  clay  contain  the  limpid  wave, 

The  clay  for  such  an  office  nature  gave ; 

Let  China's  earth  enriched  with  colored  stains, 

Pencilled  with  gold,  and  streaked  with  azure  veins, 

The  grateful  flavor  of  the  Indian  leaf, 

Or  Mocha's  sunburnt  berry  glad  receive ; 

The  nobler  metal  claims  more  generous  use, 

And  mine  should  flow  with  more  exalted  juice. 

Did  I  for  this  my  native  bed  resign 

In  the  dark  bowels  of  Potosi's  mine  ? " 

Was  I  for  this  with  violence  torn  away 

And  dragged  to  regions  of  the  upper  day  ? 

For  this  the  rage  of  torturing  furnace  bore, 

From  foreign  dross  to  purge  the  brightening  ore  ? 

For  this  have  I  endured  the  fiery  test, 

And  was  I  stamped  for  this  with  Britain's  lofty  crest  ? 

"  Unblest  the  day,  and  luckless  was  the  hour, 

Which  doomed  me  to  a  Presbyterian's  power ; 

Fated  to  serve  the  Puritanic  race, 

Wliose  slender  meal  is  shorter  than  their  grace ; 

Whose  moping  sons  no  jovial  orgies  keep ; 

Where  evening  brings  no  summons  —  but  to  sleep ; 

~No  Carnival  is  even  Christmas  here, 

And  one  long  Lent  involves  the  meagre  year. 

Bear  me,  ye  powers  !  to  some  more  genial  scene, 

Where  on  soft  cushions  lolls  the  gouty  Dean, 


12  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Or  rosy  Prebend  with  cherubic  face, 

With  double  chin,  and  paunch  of  portly  grace, 

Who,  lulled  in  downy  slumbers,  shall  agree 

To  own  no  inspiration  but  from  me. 

Or  to  some  spacious  mansion,  Gothic,  old, 

Where  Comus'  sprightly  train  their  vigils  hold ; 

There  oft  exhausted,  and  replenished  oft, 

0  let  me  still  supply  the  eternal  draught, 

Till  care  within  the  deep  abyss  be  drowned, 

And  thought  grows  giddy  at  the  vast  profound ! 

More  had  the  goblet  spoke,  but  lo  !  appears 
An  ancient  Sibyl,  furrowed  o'er  with  years. 
Her  aspect  sour  and  stern  ungracious  look 
With  sudden  damp  the  conscious  vessel  struck : 
Chilled  at  her  touch  its  mouth  it  slowly  closed, 
And  in  long  silence  all  its  griefs  reposed ; 
Yet  still  low  murmurs  creep  along  the  ground, 
And  the  air  vibrates  with  the  silver  sound. 


ON   THE  BACKWARDNESS   OF  THE   SPRING   1771.      13 


ON  THE  BACKWARDNESS  OF  THE  SPRING  1771. 

^Estatem  increpitans  seram,  Zephyrosque  morantes.  —  Virgil. 

IN  vain  the  sprightly  sun  renews  Ins  course, 
Climbs  up  the  ascending  signs  and  leads  the  day, 
While  long  embattled  clouds  repel  his  force, 
And  lazy  vapors  choke  the  golden  ray. 

In  vain  the  Spring  proclaims  the  new-born  year ; 
No  flowers  beneath  her  lingering  footsteps  spring, 
No  rosy  garland  binds  her  golden  hair, 
And  in  her  train  no  feathered  warblers  sing ; 

Her  opening  breast  is  stained  with  frequent  showers, 
Her  streaming  tresses  bathed  in  chilling  dews  ; 
And  sad  before  her  move  the  pensive  hours, 
Whose  nagging  wings  no  breathing  sweets  diffuse. 

Like  some  lone  pilgrim  clad  in  mournful  weed, 
Whose  wounded  bosom  drinks  her  falling  tears, 
On  whose  pale  cheek  relentless  sorrows  feed, 
Whose  dreary  way  no  sprightly  carol  cheers. 

Not  thus  she  breathed  on  Arno's  purple  shore, 
And  called  the  Tuscan  Muses  to  her  bowers ; 


14  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Not  this  the  robe  in  Enna's  vale  she  wore, 
When  Ceres'  daughter  rilled  her  lap  with  flowers. 

Clouds  behind  clouds  in  long  succession  rise, 
And  heavy  snows  oppress  the  springing  green ; 
The  dazzling  waste  fatigues  the  aching  eyes, 
And  fancy  droops  beneath  the  unvaried  scene. 

Indulgent  Nature,  loose  this  frozen  zone  ; 
Through  opening  skies  let  genial  sunbeams  play ; 
Dissolving  snows  shall  their  glad  impulse  own, 
And  melt  upon  the  bosom  of  the  May. 


VEESES  WKITTEN    IN  AN  ALCOVE. 

Jam  Cytherea  choros  ducit  Venus,  imminente  Luna.  —  Horat. 

NOW  the  moonbeam's  trembling  lustre 
Silvers  o'er  the  dewy  green, 
And  in  soft  and  shadowy  colors 

Sweetly  paints  the  checkered  scene. 

Here  beneath  the  opening  branches 
Streams  a  flood  of  softened  light ; 

There  the  thick  and  twisted  foliage 
Spreads  the  browner  gloom  of  night. 


VERSES   WRITTEN   IN  AN  ALCOVE.  15 

This  is  sure  the  haunt  of  fairies ; 

In  yon  cool  alcove  they  play ; 
Care  can  never  cross  the  threshold,  — 

Care  was  only  made  for  day. 

Far  from  hence  be  noisy  Clamor, 

Sick  Disgust  and  anxious  Fear ; 
Pining  Grief  and  wasting  Anguish 

Never  keep  their  vigils  here. 

Tell  no  tales  of  sheeted  spectres 

Eising  from  the  quiet  tomb  ; 
Fairer  forms  this  cell  shall  visit, 

Brighter  visions  gild  the  gloom. 

Choral  songs  and  sprightly  voices 

Echo  from  her  cell  shall  call, 
Sweeter,  sweeter  than  the  murmur 

Of  the  distant  waterfall. 

Every  ruder  gust  of  passion 

Lulled  with  music  dies  away, 
Till  within  the  charmed  bosom 

None  but  soft  affections  play. 

Soft  as  when  the  evening  breezes 
Gently  stir  the  poplar  grove ; 


16  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Brighter  than  the  smile  of  Summer, 
Sweeter  than  the  breath  of  Love. 

Thee  the  enchanted  Muse  shall  follow, 

Lissy  !  to  the  rustic  cell ; 
And,  each  careless  note  repeating, 

Tune  them  to  her  charming  shell. 

Not  the  Muse  who  wreathed  with  laurel 
Solemn  stalks  with  tragic  gait, 

And  in  clear  and  lofty  vision 
Sees  the  future  births  of  fate ; 

Not  the  maid  who  crowned  with  cypress 
Sweeps  along  in  sceptred  pall, 

And  in  sad  and  solemn  accents 
Mourns  the  crested  hero's  fall ; 

But  that  other  smiling  sister, 
With  the  blue  and  laughing  eye, 

Singing,  in  a  lighter  measure, 
Strains  of  woodland  harmony : 

All  unknown  to  fame  and  glory, 

Easy,  blithe,  and  debonair, 
Crowned  with  flowers,  her  careless  tresses 

Loosely  floating  on  the  air. 


THE   MOUSE'S   PETITION.  17 

Then  when  next  the  star  of  evening 

Softly  sheds  the  silent  dew, 
Let  me  in  this  rustic  temple, 

Lissy !  meet  the  Muse  and  you" 


THE  MOUSE'S  PETITION.* 

OHEAE  a  pensive  prisoner's  prayer, 
For  liberty  that  sighs  ; 
And  never  let  thine  heart  be  shut 
Against  the  wretch's  cries  ! 

For  here  forlorn  and  sad  I  sit, 

Within  the  wiry  grate ; 
And  tremble  at  the  approaching  morn, 

Which  brings  impending  fate. 

If  e'er  thy  breast  with  freedom  glowed, 

And  spurned  a  tyrant's  chain, 
Let  not  thy  strong  oppressive  force 

A  free-born  mouse  detain  ! 

*  Found  in  the  trap,  where  he  had  been  confined  all  night  by  Dr. 
Priestley  for  the  sake  of  making  experiments  with  different  kinds  of 


18  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

0  do  not  stain  with  guiltless  blood 

Thy  hospitable  hearth ; 
Nor  triumph  that  thy  wiles  betrayed 

A  prize  so  little  worth. 

The  scattered  gleanings  of  a  feast 

My  frugal  meals  supply ; 
But  if  thine  unrelenting  heart 

That  slender  boon  deny,  — 

The  cheerful  light,  the  vital  air, 
Are  blessings  widely  given ; 

Let  nature's  commoners  enjoy 
The  common  gifts  of  heaven. 

The  well-taught  philosophic  mind 

To  all  compassion  gives  : 
Casts  round  the  world  an  equal  eye, 

And  feels  for  all  that  lives. 

If  mind,  —  as  ancient  sages  taught,  — 

A  never-dying  flame, 
Still  shifts  through  matter's  varying  forms, 

In  every  form  the  same ; 

Beware,  lest  in  the  worm  you  crush 
A  brother's  soul  you  find ; 


THE  MOUSE'S   PETITION.  19 

And  tremble  lest  thy  luckless  hand 
Dislodge  a  kindred  mind. 

Or,  if  this  transient  gleam  of  day- 
Be  all  of  life  we  share, 

Let  pity  plead  within  thy  breast 
That  little  all  to  spare. 

So  may  thy  hospitable  board 

With  wealth  and  peace  be  crowned ; 

And  every  charm  of  heartfelt  ease 
Beneath  thy  roof  be  found. 

So  when  destruction  lurks  unseen, 
Which  men,  like  mice,  may  share, 

May  some  kind  angel  clear  thy  path, 
And  break  the  hidden  snare. 


20  WOEKS    OF   MBS.    BARBAULD. 


TO   MRS.    p********. 

TVITH   SOME  DRAWINGS    OF  BIRDS  AND   INSECTS. 

The  kindred  arts  to  please  thee  shall  conspire  ; 
One  dip  the  pencil,  and  one  string  the  lyre. 

Pope. 

AMAXDA  bids  ;  —  at  her  command  again 
I  seize  the  pencil,  or  resume  the  pen  ; 
No  other  call  my  willing  hand  requires, 
And  Friendship,  better  than  a  Muse,  inspires. 

Painting  and  Poetry  are  near  allied ; 

The  kindred  arts  two  sister  Muses  guide : 

This  charms  the  eye,  that  steals  upon  the  ear ; 

There  sounds  are  tuned,  and  colors  blended  here  : 

This  with  a  silent  touch  enchants  our  eyes, 

And  bids  a  gayer,  brighter  world  arise ; 

That,  less  allied  to  sense,  with  deeper  art 

Can  pierce  the  close  recesses  of  the  heart ; 

By  well-set  syllables,  and  potent  sound, 

Can  rouse,  can  chill  the  breath,  can  soothe,  can  wound ; 

To  life  adds  motion,  and  to  beauty  soul, 

And  breathes  a  spirit  through  the  finished  whole ; 

Each  perfects  each,  in  friendly  union  joined,  — 

This  gives  Amanda's  form,  and  that  her  mind. 


TO   MRS.    P********.  21 

But  humbler  themes  my  artless  hand  requires, 
Nor  higher  than  the  feathered  tribe  aspires. 
Yet  who  the  various  nations  can  declare 
That  plough  with  busy  wings  the  peopled  air  ? 
These  cleave  the  crumbling  bark  for  insect  food, 
Those  dip  their  crooked  beak  in  kindred  blood ; 
Some  haunt  the  rushy  moor,  the  lonely  woods, 
Some  bathe  their  silver  plumage  in  the  floods  ; 
Some  fly  to  man,  his  household  gods  implore, 
And  gather  round  his  hospitable  door  j 
Wait  the  known  call,  and  find  protection  there 
From  all  the  lesser  tyrants  of  the  air. 

The  tawny  Eagle  seats  his  callow  brood 

High  on  the  cliff,  and  feasts  his  young  with  blood. 

On  Snowdon's  rocks,  or  Orkney's  wide  domain, 

Whose  beetling  cliffs  o'erhang  the  Western  main, 

The  royal  bird  his  lonely  kingdom  forms 

Amidst  the  gathering  clouds  and  sullen  storms  ; 

Through  the  wide  waste  of  air  he  darts  his  sight, 

And  holds  his  sounding  pinions  poised  for  flight ; 

With  cruel  eye  premeditates  the  war, 

And  marks  his  destined  victim  from  afar ; 

Descending  in  a  whirlwind  to  the  ground, 

His  pinions  like  the  rush  of  water  sound ; 

The  fairest  of  the  fold  he  bears  away, 

And  to  his  nest  compels  the  struggling  prey  ; 


22 


WORKS  OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 


He  scorns  the  game  by  meaner  hunters  tore, 
And  dips  his  talons  in  no  vulgar  gore. 


With  lovelier  pomp  along  the  grassy  plain 

The  Silver  Pheasant  draws  his  shining  train ; 

On  Asia's  myrtle  shores,  by  Phasis'  stream, 

He  spreads  his  plumage  to  the  sunny  gleam ; 

But  when  the  wiry  net  his  flight  confines, 

He  lowers  his  purple  crest,  and  inly  pines ; 

The  beauteous  captive  hangs  his  ruffled  wing, 

Oppressed  by  bondage  and  our  chilly  spring. 

To  claim  the  verse  unnumbered  tribes  appear, 

That  swell  the  music  of  the  vernal  year ; 

Seized  with  the  spirit  of  the  kindly  May, 

They  sleek  the  glossy  wing,  and  tune  the  lay ; 

With  emulative  strife  the  notes  prolong, 

And  pour  out  all  their  little  souls  in  song. 

When  Winter  bites  upon  the  naked  plain, 

Nor  food  nor  shelter  in  the  groves  remain ; 

By  instinct  led,  a  firm  united  band, 

As  marshalled  by  some  skilful  general's  hand, 

The  congregated  nations  wing  their  way 

In  dusky  columns  o'er  the  trackless  sea ; 

In  clouds  unnumbered  annual  hover  o'er 

The  craggy  Bass,  or  Kilda's  utmost  shore ; 

Thence  spread  their  sails  to  meet  the  Southern  wind, 

And  leave  the  gathering  tempest  far  behind ; 


TO   MES.    p********.  23 

Pursue  the  circling  sun's  indulgent  ray, 
Course  the  swift  seasons,  and  o'ertake  the  day. 

Not  so  the  insect  race,  ordained  to  keep 

The  lazy  sabbath  of  a  half  year's  sleep  : 

Entombed  beneath  the  filmy  web  they  lie, 

And  wait  the  influence  of  a  kinder  sky. 

When  vernal  sunbeams  pierce  their  dark  retreat, 

The  heaving  tomb  distends  with  vital  heat ; 

The  full-formed  brood,  impatient  of  their  cell, 

Start  from  their  trance,  and  burst  their  silken  shell;  — 

Trembling  awhile  they  stand,  and  scarcely  dare 

To  launch  at  once  upon  the  untried  air : 

At  length  assured,  they  catch  the  favoring  gale, 

And  leave  their  sordid  spoils,  and  high  in  ether  sail. 

So  when  brave  Tancred  struck  the  conscious  rind, 

He  found  a  nymph  in  every  trunk  confined ; 

The  forest  labors  with  convulsive  throes, 

The  bursting  trees  the  lovely  births  disclose, 

And  a  gay  troop  of  damsels  round  him  stood, 

Where  late  was  rugged  bark  and  lifeless  wood. 

Lo  the  bright  train  their  radiant  wings  unfold ! 

With  silver  fringed,  and  freckled  o'er  with  gold  : 

On  the  gay  bosom  of  some  fragrant  flower 

They  idly  fluttering  live  their  little  hour ; 

Their  life  all  pleasure,  and  their  talk  all  play, 

All  spring  their  age,  and  sunshine  all  their  day. 


24  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Not  so  the  child  of  sorrow,  wretched  Man ; 

His  course  with  toil  concludes,  with  pain  began ; 

That  his  high  destiny  he  might  discern, 

And  in  misfortune's  school  this  lesson  learn,  — 

Pleasure  's  the  portion  of  the  inferior  kind ; 

But  glory,  virtue,  Heaven  for  Man  designed. 

What  atom-forms  of  insect  life  appear  ! 

And  who  can  follow  Nature's  pencil  here  ? 

Their  wings  with  azure,  green,  and  purple  glossed, 

Studded  with  colored  eyes,  with  gems  embossed, 

Inlaid  with  pearl,  and  marked  with  various  stains 

Of  lively  crimson  through  their  dusky  veins  ; 

Some  shoot  like  living  stars  athwart  the  night, 

And  scatter  from  their  wings  a  vivid  light, 

To  guide  the  Indian  to  his  tawny  loves, 

As  through  the  woods  with  cautious  steps  he  moves. 

See  the  proud  giant  of  the  beetle  race  ! 

What  shining  arms  his  polished  limbs  enchase ! 

Like  some  stern  warrior  formidably  bright, 

His  steely  sides  reflect  a  gleaming  light ; 

On  his  large  forehead  spreading  horns  he  wears, 

And  high  in  air  the  branching  antlers  bears ; 

O'er  many  an  inch  extends  his  wide  domain, 

And  his  rich  treasury  swells  with  hoarded  grain. 

Thy  friend  thus  strives  to  cheat  the  lonely  hour 
With  song  or  paint,  an  insect  or  a  flower ; 


TO   SLEEP.  25 

With  song  or  paint,  an  insect  or  a  flower ; 
Yet  if  Amanda  praise  the  flowing  line, 
And  bend  delighted  o'er  the  gay  design, 
I  envy  not  nor  emulate  the  fame 
Or  of  the  painter's  or  the  poet's  name,  — 
Could  I  to  both  with  equal  claim  pretend,  — 
Yet  far,  far  dearer  were  the  name  of  Friend. 


TO   SLEEP.* 

COME,  gentle  god  of  soft  repose, 
Come  soothe  this  tortured  breast; 
Shed  kind  oblivion  o'er  my  woes, 
And  lull  my  cares  to  rest. 

Come,  gentle  god,  without  thy  aid 

I  sink  in  dark  despair  ; 
O  wrap  me  in  thy  silent  shade, 

For  peace  is  only  there. 

Let  hope  in  some  propitious  dream 
Her  bright  illusions  spread  ; 

Once  more  let  rays  of  comfort  beam 
Around  my  drooping  head. 

*  Dr.  Aikin's  Collection  of  Songs.  —  Ed. 

VOL.    II.  2 


26  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

0  quickly  send  thy  kind  relief; 

These  heartfelt  pangs  remove ; 
Let  me  forget  myself,  my  grief, 

And  every  care,  —  but  love. 


A  DIRGE.-* 

BOW  the  head,  thou  lily  fair, 
Bow  the  head  in  mournful  guise ; 
Sickly  turn  thy  shining  white, 
Bend  thy  stalk,  and  never  rise. 

Shed  thy  leaves,  thou  lovely  rose, 
Shed  thy  leaves  so  sweet  and  gay  ; 

Spread  them  wide  on  the  cold  earth, 
Quickly  let  them  fade  away. 

Fragrant  woodbine  all  untwine, 
All  untwine  from  yonder  bower  ; 

Drag  thy  branches  on  the  ground, 
Stain  with  dust  each  tender  flower. 

For,  woe  is  me  !  the  gentle  knot, 
That  did  in  willing  durance  bind 

*  Dr.  Aikin's  Collection  of  Songs.  —  Ed. 


CHARACTERS.  27 

My  Emma  and  her  happy  swain, 
By  cruel  death  is  now  untwined. 

Her  head  with  dim  half-closed  eyes, 
Is  bowed  upon  her  breast  of  snow  ; 

And  cold  and'  faded  are  those  cheeks 
That  wont  with  cheerful  red  to  glow. 

And  mute  is  that  harmonious  voice 

That  wont  to  breathe  the  sounds  of  love  ; 

And  lifeless  are  those  beauteous  limbs, 
That  with  such  ease  and  grace  did  move. 

And  I,  of  all  my  bliss  bereft, 

Lonely  and  sad  must  ever  moan  ; 
Dead  to  each  joy  the  world  can  give, 

Alive  to  memory  alone. 


CHARACTERS. 

OBORN  to  soothe  distress  and  lighten  care, 
Lively  as  soft,  and  innocent  as  fair  ! 
Blest  with  that  sweet  simplicity  of  thought 
So  rarely  found,  and  never  to  be  taught ; 


28  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Of  winning  speech,  endearing,  artless,  kind, 
The  loveliest  pattern  of  a  female  mind ; 
Like  some  fair  spirit  from  the  realms  of  rest, 
With  all  her  native  heaven  within  her  breast ; 
So  pure,  so  good,  she  scarce  can  guess  at  sin, 
But  thinks  the  world  without  like  that  within ; 
Such  melting  tenderness,  so  fond  to  bless, 
Her  charity  almost  becomes  excess. 
Wealth  may  be  courted,  Wisdom  be  revered, 
And  Beauty  praised,  and  brutal  Strength  be  feared ; 
But  Goodness  only  can  Affection  move, 
And  Love  must  owe  its  origin  to  Love. 


Illam  quicquid  agit,  quoquo  vestigia  flectit 
Componit  furtim,  subsequiturque  decor. 

Tibul. 

Of  gentle  manners,  and  of  taste  refined, 

With  all  the  graces  of  a  polished  mind  ; 

Clear  sense  and  truth  still  shone  in  all  she  spoke, 

And  from  her  lips  no  idle  sentence  broke. 

Each  nicer  elegance  of  art  she  knew  ; 

Correctly  fair,  and  regularly  true  ; 

Her  ready  fingers  plied  with  equal  skill 

The  pencil's  task,  the  needle,  or  the  quill ; 

So  poised  her  feelings,'  so  composed  her  soul, 

So  subject  all  to  reason's  calm  control,  — 


CHARACTERS.  29 

One  only  passion,  strong  and  unconfined, 

Disturbed  the  balance  of  her  even  mind  : 

One  passion  ruled  despotic  in  her  breast, 

In  every  word,  and  look,  and  thought  confest ;  — 

But  that  was  love ;  and  love  delights  to  bless 

The  generous  transports  of  a  fond  excess. 


Happy  old  man  !  who,  stretched  beneath  the  shade 

Of  large  grown  trees,  or  in  the  rustic  porch 

With  woodbine  canopied,  where  linger  yet 

The  hospitable  virtues,  calm  enjoy'st 

Nature's  best  blessings  all,  —  a  healthy  age 

Euddy  and  vigorous,  native  cheerfulness, 

Plain-hearted  friendship,  simple  piety, 

The  rural  manners  and  the  rural  joys, 

Friendly  to  life.     0  rude  of  speech,  yet  rich 

In  genuine  worth,  not  unobserved  shall  pass 

Thy  bashful  virtues  !  for  the  Muse  shall  mark, 

Detect  thy  charities,  and  call  to  light 

Thy  secret  deeds  of  mercy ;  while  the  poor, 

The  desolate  and  friendless,  at  thy  gate, 

A  numerous  family,  with  better  praise 

Shall  hallow  in  their  hearts  thy  spotless  name. 


Such  were  the  dames  of  old  heroic  days, 
Which  faithful  story  yet  delights  to  praise ; 


30  WOEKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Who,  great  in  useful  works,  hung  o'er  the  loom,  — 
The  mighty  mothers  of  immortal  Rome  : 
Obscure,  in  sober  dignity  retired, 
They  more  deserved  than  sought  to  be  admired ; 
The  household  virtues  o'er  their  honored  head 
Their  simple  grace  and  modest  lustre  shed :  — 
Chaste  their  attire,  their  feet  unused  to  roam, 
They  loved  the  sacred  threshold  of  their  home  ; 
Yet,  true  to  glory,  fanned  the  generous  flame, 
Bade  lovers,  brothers,  sons,  aspire  to  fame  ; 
In  the  young  bosom  cherished  Virtue's  seed, 
The  secret  springs  of  many  a  godlike  deed. 
So  the  fair  stream  in  some  sequestered  glade 
With  lowly  state  glides  silent  through  the  shade ; 
Yet  by  the  smiling  meads  her  urn  is  blest, 
With  freshest  flowers  her  rising  banks  are  drest, 
And  groves  of  laurel,  by  her  sweetness  fed, 
High  o'er  the  forest  lift  their  verdant  head. 


Is  there  whom  genius  and  whom  taste  adorn 
With  rare  but  happy  union  ;  in  whose  breast 
Calm,  philosophic,  thoughtful,  largely  fraught 
With  stores  of  various  knowledge,  dwell  the  powers 
That  trace  out  secret  causes,  and  unveil 
Great  Nature's  awful  face  ?     Is  there  whose  hours 
Of  still  domestic  leisure  breathe  the  soul 


CHARACTERS.  31 

Of  friendship,  peace,  and  elegant  delight 
Beneath  poetic  shades,  where  leads  the  Muse 
Through  walks  of  fragrance,  and  the  fairy  groves 
Where  young  ideas  blossom  ?  —  Is  there  one 
Whose  tender  hand,  lenient  of  human  woes, 
Wards  off  the  dart  of  death,  and  smooths  the  couch 
Of  torturing  anguish  ?    On  so  dear  a  name 
May  blessings  dwell,  honor,  and  cordial  praise ; 
.JSTor  need  he  be  a  brother  to  be  loved. 


Champion  of  Truth,  alike  through  Nature's  field, 

And  where  in  sacred  leaves  she  shines  revealed,  — 

Alike  in  both,  eccentric,  piercing,  bold, 

Like  his  own  lightnings,  which  no  chains  can  hold, 

Neglecting  caution,  and  disdaining  art, 

He  seeks  no  armor  for  a  naked  heart :  — 

Pursue  the  track  thy  ardent  genius  shows, 

That  like  the  sun  illumines  where  it  goes  ; 

Travel  the  various  map  of  Science  o'er, 

Eecord  past  wonders,  and  discover  more  ; 

Pour  thy  free  spirit  o'er  the  breathing  page, 

And  wake  the  virtue  of  a  careless  age. 

But  0  forgive,  if  touched  with  fond  regret 

Fancy  recalls  the  scenes  she  can't  forget ; 

Eecalls  the  vacant  smile,  the  social  hours 

Which  charmed  us  once,  for  once  those  scenes  were  ours! 


32  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

And  while  thy  praises  through  wide  realms  extend, 
"We  sit  in  shades,  and  mourn  the  absent  friend. 
So  when  the  impetuous  river  sweeps  the  plain, 
Itself  a  sea,  and  rushes  to  the  main ; 
"While  its  firm  banks  repel  conflicting  tides, 
And  stately  on  its  breast  the  vessel  glides  ; 
Admiring  much  the  shepherd  stands  to  gaze, 
Awe-struck,  and  mingling  wonder  with  his  praise  ; 
Yet  more  he  loves  its  winding  path  to  trace 
Through  beds  of  flowers,  and  Nature's  rural  face, 
While  yet  a  stream  the  silent  vale  it  cheered, 
By  many  a  recollected  scene  endeared, 
"Where  trembling  first  beneath  the  poplar  shade 
He  tuned  his  pipe,  to  suit  the  wild  cascade. 


AN  INVENTORY   OF  THE  FURNITURE  IN 
DR.  PRIESTLEY'S   STUDY. 

A  MAP  of  every  country  known, 
With  not  a  foot  of  land  his  own. 
A  list  of  folks  that  kicked  the  dust 
On  this  poor  globe,  from  Ptol.  the  First ; 
He  hopes  —  indeed,  it  is  but  fair  — 
Some  day  to  get  a  corner  there. 
A  group  of  all  the  British  kings  — 
Fair  emblem  !  —  on  a  pack-thread  swings. 


AN  INVENTORY.  33 

The  Fathers,  ranged  in  goodly  row, 
A  decent,  venerable  show, 
Writ  a  great  while  ago,  they  tell  us, 
And  many  an  inch  o'ertop  their  fellows. 
A  Juvenal  to  hunt  for  mottoes, 
And  Ovid's  tales  of  nymphs  and  grottos. 
The  meek -robed  lawyers,  all  in  white, 
Pure  as  the  lamb,  —  at  least  to  sight. 
A  shelf  of  bottles,  jar,  and  phial, 
By  which  the  rogues  he  can  defy  all,  — 
All  filled  with  lightning  keen  and  genuine, 
And  many  a  little  imp  he  '11  pen  you  in  ; 
Which,  like  Le  Sage's  sprite,  let  out, 
Among  the  neighbors  makes  a  rout ; 
Brings  down  the  lightning  on  their  houses, 
And  kills  their  geese,  and  frights  their  spouses. 
A  rare  thermometer,  by  which 
He  settles  to  the  nicest  pitch 
The  just  degrees  of  heat,  to  raise 
Sermons,  or  politics,  or  plays. 
Papers  and  books,  a  strange  mixed  olio, 
From  shilling  touch  to  pompous  folio ; 
Answer,  remark,  reply,  rejoinder, 
Fresh  from  the  mint,  all  stamped  and  coined  here; 
Like  new-made  glass,  set  by  to  cool, 
Before  it  bears  the  workman's  tooL 
A  blotted  proof-sheet,  wet  from  Bowling, — 
2*  c 


34  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

a  How  can  a  man  his  anger  hold  in  ?  "  — 

Forgotten  rhymes  and  college  themes, 

Worm-eaten  plans  and  embryo  schemes  :  — 

A  mass  of  heterogeneous  matter, 

A  chaos  dark,  nor  land  nor  water ; 

New  books,  like  new-born  infants,  stand, 

Waiting  the  printer's  clothing  hand :  — 

Others,  a  motley  ragged  brood, 

Their  limbs  unfashioned  all,  and  nude, 

Like  Cadmus'  half-formed  men,  appear ; 

One  rears  a  helm,  one  lifts  a  spear ; 

And  feet  were  lopped  and  fingers  torn 

Before  then  fellow  limbs  were  born ; 

A  leg  began  to  kick  and  sprawl 

Before  the  head  was  seen  at  all, 

Which  quiet  as  a  mushroom  lay 

Till  crumbling  hillocks  gave  it  way ; 

And  all,  like  controversial  writing, 

Were  born  with  teeth,  and  sprang  up  fighting. 

"  But  what  is  this,"  I  hear  you  say, 
"  Which  saucily  provokes  my  eye  ? "  — 
A  thing  unknown,  without  a  name, 
Born  of  the  air  and  doomed  to  flame. 


HYMN    TO    CONTENT.  35 


HYMN   TO   CONTEXT. 

Natura  beatis 
Omnibus  esse  dedit,  si  quis  coguoverit  uti. 

Claudian. 

OTHOU,  the  Nymph  with  placid  eye ! 
O  seldom  found,  yet  ever  nigh  ! 
Eeceive  my  temperate  vow ; 
Not  all  the  storms  that  shake  the  pole 
Can  e'er  disturb  thy  halcyon  soul 
And  smooth  unaltered  brow. 

0  come,  in  simple  vest  arrayed, 
With  all  thy  sober  cheer  displayed, 

To  bless  my  longing  sight ; 
Thy  mien  composed,  thy  even  pace, 
Thy  meek  regard,  thy  matron  grace, 

And  chaste  subdued  delight. 

No  more  by  varying  passions  beat, 
O  gently  guide  my  pilgrim  feet 

To  find  thy  hermit  cell ; 
Where  in  some  pure  and  equal  sky, 
Beneath  thy  soft  indulgent  eye, 

The  modest  virtues  dwell. 


36  WOBKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Simplicity  in  Attic  vest, 

And  Innocence  with  candid  breast, 

And  clear  undaunted  eye ; 
And  Hope,  who  points  to  distant  years, 
Fair  opening  through  this  vale  of  tears 

A  vista  to  the  sky. 

There  Health,  through  whose  calm  bosom  glide 
The  temperate  joys  in  even  tide, 

That  rarely  ebb  or  flow ; 
And  Patience  there,  thy  sister  meek, 
Presents  her  mild  unvarying  cheek 

To  meet  the  offered  blow. 

Her  influence  taught  the  Phrygian  sage 
A  tyrant  master's  wanton  rage 

With  settled  smiles  to  meet ; 
Inured  to  toil  and  bitter  bread, 
He  bowed  his  meek  submitted  head 

And  kissed  thy  sainted  feet. 

But  thou,  0  Nymph,  retired  and  coy ! 
In  what  brown  hamlet  dost  thou  joy 

To  tell  thy  tender  tale  ? 
The  lowliest  children  of  the  ground, 
Moss-rose  and  violet,  blossom  round, 

And  lily  of  the  vale. 


TO   WISDOM.  37 

0  say  what  soft  propitious  hour 

1  best  may  choose  to  hail  thy  power, 
And  court  thy  gentle  sway  ? 

When  Autumn,  friendly  to  the  Muse, 
Shall  thy  own  modest  tints  diffuse, 
m    And  shed  thy  milder  day. 

When  Eve,  her  dewy  star  beneath, 
Thy  balmy  spirit  loves  to  breathe, 

And  every  storm  is  laid ;  — 
If  such  an  hour  was  e'er  thy  choice, 
Oft  let  me  hear  thy  soothing  voice 

Low  whispering  through  the  shade. 


TO   WISDOM. 

Dona  prassentis  rape  feetus  horse,  ac 
Linque  severa. 

Horat. 

O   WISDOM  !  if  thy  soft  control 
Can  soothe  the  sickness  of  the  soul, 
Can  bid  the  warring  passions  cease, 
And  breathe  the  calm  of  tender  peace  ; 
Wisdom  !  I  bless  thy  gentle  sway, 
And  ever,  ever  will  obey. 


38 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


But  if  thou  com'st  with  frown  austere 

To  nurse  the  brood  of  Care  and  Fear ; 

To  bid  our  sweetest  passions  die, 

And  leave  us  in  their  room  a  sigh ; 

Or  if  thine  aspect  stern  have  power 

To  wither  each  poor  transient  flower 

That  cheers  their  pilgrimage  of  woe, 

And  dry  the  springs  whence  hope  should  flow, 

Wisdom  !  thine  empire  I  disclaim, 

Thou  empty  boast  of  pompous  name  ! 

In  gloomy  shade  of  cloisters  dwell, 

But  never  haunt  my  cheerful  cell 

Hail  to  Pleasure's  frolic  train  ! 

Hail  to  Fancy's  golden  reign  S 

Festive  Mirth,  and  Laughter  wild, 

Free  and  sportful  as  the  child  ! 

Hope  with  eager  sparkling  eyes, 

And  easy  faith  and  fond  surprise ! 

Let  these,  in  fairy  colors  drest, 

Forever  share  my  careless  breast ; 

Then,  though  wise  I  may  not  be, 

The  wise  themselves  shall  envy  me. 


THE   ORIGIN   OF   SONG-WRITING.  39 


THE  ORIGIN   OF   SONG-WRITING.* 

Illic  indocto  primiim  se  exercuit  arcu ; 

Hei  mihi  quam  doctas  mine  habet  ille  manns  ! 

Tibul. 

WHEN  Cupid,  wanton  boy  !  was  young. 
His  wings  unfledged,  and  rude  his  tongue, 
He  loitered  in  Arcadian  bowers, 
And  hid  his  bow  in  wreaths  of  flowers  ; 
Or  pierced  some  fond,  unguarded  heart 
With  now  and  then  a  random  dart ; 
But  heroes  scorned  the  idle  boy, 
And  love  was  but  a  shepherd's  toy. 
When  Yenus,  vexed  to  see  her  child 
Amid  the  forests  thus  run  wild, 
Would  point  him  out  some  nobler  game,  — 
Gods  and  godlike  men  to  tame. 
She  seized  the  boy's  reluctant  hand, 
And  led  him  to  the  virgin  band, 
Where  the  sister  Muses  round 
Swell  the  deep,  majestic  sound ; 
And  in  solemn  strains  unite, 
Breathing  chaste,  severe  delight ;  — 

*  Addressed  to  the  author  of  Essays  on  Song- Writing,  Dr.  Aikin. 
Ed. 


40  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Songs  of  chiefs  and  heroes  old, 

In  unsubmitting  virtue  bold ; 

Of  even  valor's  temperate  heat, 

And  toils  to  stubborn  patience  sweet ; 

Of  nodding  plumes  and  burnished  arms, 

And  glory's  bright,  terrific  charms. 

The  potent  sounds  like  lightning  dart 
Eesistless  through  the  glowing  heart ; 
Of  power  to  lift  the  fixed  soul 
High  over  Fortune's  proud  control ; 
Thrilling  deep  prophetic  musing ; 
Love  of  beauteous  death  infusing ; 
Scorn  and  unconquerable  hate 
Of  tyrant  pride's  unhallowed  state. 
The  boy,  abashed  and  half  afraid, 
Beheld  each  chaste  immortal  maid,  — 
Pallas  spread  her  Egis  there ; 
Mars  stood  by  with  threatening  air ; 
And  stern  Diana's  icy  look 
With  sudden  chill  his  bosom  struck. 

"  Daughters  of  Jove,  receive  the  child," 
The  queen  of  beauty  said,  and  smiled ; 
Her  rosy  breath  perfumed  the  air, 
"  And  scattered  sweet  contagion  there ; 
Eelenting  Nature  learned  to  languish, 


THE   ORIGIN   OF   SONG-WRITING.  41 

And  sickened  with  delightful  anguish  :  — 
"  Eeceive  him,  artless  yet  and  young ; 
Eefine  his  air  and  smooth  his  tongue ; 
Conduct  him  through  your  favorite  bowers, 
Enriched  with  fair  perennial  flowers, 
To  solemn  shades  and  springs  that  lie 
Eemote  from  each  unhallowed  eye  ; 
Teach  him  to  spell  those  mystic  names 
That  kindle  bright  immortal  flames ; 
And  guide  his  young,  unpractised  feet 
To  reach  coy  Learning's  lofty  seat." 

Ah,  luckless  hour  !  mistaken  maids, 
When  Cupid  sought  the  Muse's  shades  ! 
Of  their  sweetest  notes  beguiled 
By  the  sly,  insidious  child  ; 
Now  of  power  his  darts  are  found 
Twice  ten  thousand  times  to  wound. 
Now  no  more  the  slackened  strings 
Breathe  of  high,  immortal  things, 
But  Cupid  tunes  the  Muse's  lyre 
To  languid  notes  of  soft  desire. 
In  every  clime,  in  every  tongue, 
'T  is  love  inspires  the  poet's  song. 
Hence  Sappho's  soft,  infectious  page  ; 
Monimia's  woe  ;  Othello's  rage  ; 
Abandoned  Dido's  fruitless  prayer  ; 


42  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

And  Eloisa's  long  despair  ; 

The  garland,  blest  with  many  a  vow, 

For  haughty  Sacharissa's  brow  ; 

And,  washed  with  tears,  the  mournful  verse 

That  Petrarch  laid  on  Laura's  hearse. 

But  more  than  all  the  sister  quire, 

Music  confessed  the  pleasing  fire. 

Here  sovereign  Cupid  reigned  alone  ; 

Music  and  song  were  all  his  own. 

Sweet  as  in  old  Arcadian  plains, 

The  British  pipe  has  caught  the  strains : 

And  where  the  Tweed's  pure  current  glides, 

Or  Liffey  rolls  her  limpid  tides, 

Or  Thames  his  oozy  waters  leads 

Through  rural  bowers  or  yellow  meads,  — 

With  many  an  old  romantic  tale 

Has  cheered  the  lone,  sequestered  vale ; 

With  many  a  sweet  and  tender  lay 

Deceived  the  tiresome  summer  day. 

T  is  yours  to  cull  with  happy  art 

Each  meaning  verse  that  speaks  the  heart ; 

And,  fair  arrayed,  in  order  meet, 

To  lay  the  wreath  at  Beauty's  feet. 


SONGS.  43 


SOXGS. 

SONG. 

COME  here,  fond  youth,  whoe'er  thou  be, 
That  boasts  to  love  as  well  as  me. 
And  if  thy  breast  have  felt  so  wide  a  wound, 
Come  hither,  and  thy  flame  approve  ; 
I  '11  teach  thee  what  it  is  to  love, 
And  by  what  marks  true  passion  may  be  found. 

It  is  to  be  all  bathed  in  tears ; 

To  live  upon  a  smile  for  years ; 
To  lie  whole  ages  at  a  beauty's  feet : 

To  kneel,  to  languish,  and  implore  ; 

And  still,  though  she  disdain,  adore  :  — 
It  is  to  do  all  this,  and  think  thy  sufferings  sweet. 

It  is  to  gaze  upon  her  eyes 

With  eager  joy  and  fond  surprise  ; 
Yet  tempered  with  such  chaste  and  awful  fear 

As  wretches  feel  who  wait  their  doom  ; 

Nor  must  one  ruder  thought  presume, 
Though  but  in  whispers  breathed,  to  meet  her  ear. 


44  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

It  is  to  hope,  though  hope  were  lost ; 

Though  heaven  and  earth  thy  passion  crossed ; 
Though  she  were  bright  as  sainted  queens  above, 

And  thou  the  least  and  meanest  swain 

That  folds  his  flock  upon  the  plain,  — 
Yet,  if  thou  dar'st  not  hope,  thou  dost  not  love. 

It  is  to  quench  thy  joy  in  tears, 

To  nurse  strange  doubts  and  groundless  fears ; 
If  pangs  of  jealousy  thou  hast  not  proved, — 

Though  she  were  fonder  and  more  true 

Than  any  nymph  old  poets  drew,  — 
0,  never  dream  again  that  thou  hast  loved  ! 

If,  when  the  darling  maid  is  gone, 

Thou  dost  not  seek  to  be  alone, 
Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  trance  of  tender  woe, 

And  muse,  and  fold  thy  languid  arms, 

Feeding  thy  fancy  on  her  charms, 
Thou  dost  not  love,  —  for  love  is  nourished  so. 

If  any  hopes  thy  bosom  share 

But  those  which  Love  has  planted  there, 
Or  any  cares  but  his  thy  breast  inthrall,  — 

Thou  never  yet  his  power  hast  known ; 

Love  sits  on  a  despotic  throne, 
And  reigns  a  tyrant,  if  he  reigns  at  all 


SONGS.  45 

Now  if  thou  art  so  lost  a  thing, 

Here  all  thy  tender  sorrows  bring, 
And  prove  whose  patience  longest  can  endure  : 

We  '11  strive  whose  fancy  shall  be  lost 

In  dreams  of  fondest  passion  most ; 
For  if  thou  thus  hast  loved,  0  never  hope  a  cure  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  CUPID. 

If  ever  thou  didst  joy  to  bind 
Two  hearts  in  equal  passion  joined, 
0  Son  of  Venus  !  hear  me  now, 
And  bid  Florella  bless  my  vow. 

If  any  bliss  reserved  for  me 
Thou  in  the  leaves  of  fate  shouldst  see ; 
If  any  white,  propitious  hour 
Pregnant  with  hoarded  joys  in  store ; 

Now,  now  the  mighty  treasure  give, 
In  her  for  whom  alone  I  live  ; 
In  sterling  love  pay  all  the  sum, 
And  I  '11  absolve  the  fates  to  come. 

In  all  the  pride  of  full-blown  charms 
Yield  her,  relenting,  to  my  arms : 


46  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Her  bosom  touch  with  soft  desires, 
And  let  her  feel  what  she  inspires. 

But  Cupid,  if  thine  aid  be  vain, 

The  dear  reluctant  maid  to  gain ; 

If  still  with  cold,  averted  eyes 

She  dash  my  hopes  and  scorn  my  sighs ; 

0  grant ! —  't  is  all  I  ask  of  thee,  — 
That  I  no  more  may  change  than  she, 
But  still  with  duteous  zeal  love  on, 
When  every  gleam  of  hope  is  gone. 

Leave  me  then  alone  to  languish  ; 
Think  not  time  can  heal  my  anguish ; 
Pity  the  woes  which  I  endure,  — 
But  never,  never  grant  a  cure. 


SONG. 

When  gentle  Celia  first  J  knew, 
A  breast  so  good,  so  kind,  so  true, 

Reason  and  taste  approved ;  - 
Pleased  to  indulge  so  pure  a  flame, 
I  called  it  by  too  soft  a  name, 

And  fondly  thought  I  loved, 


SONGS.  47 

Till  Chloris  came  :  —  with  sad  surprise 
I  felt  the  lightning  of  her  eyes 

Through  all  my  senses  run ; 
All  glowing  with  resistless  charms, 
She  filled  my  breast  with  new  alarms,  — 

I  saw,  and  was  undone. 

0  Celia  !  dear,  unhappy  maid, 
Forbear  the  weakness  to  upbraid 

Which  ought  your  scorn  to  move  ; 

1  know  this  beauty  false  and  vain, 
I  know  she  triumphs  in  my  pain, 

Yet  still  I  feel  I  love. 

Thy  gentle  smiles  no  more  can  please, 
Nor  can  thy  softest  friendship  ease 

The  torments  I  endure : 
Think  what  that  wounded  breast  must  feel 
"Which  truth  and  kindness  cannot  heal, 

Nor  e'en  thy  pity  cure  ! 

Oft  shall  I  curse  my  iron  chain, 
And  wish  again  thy  milder  reign 

With  long  and  vain  regret ; 
All  that  I  can,  to  thee  I  give ; 
And  could  I  still  to  reason  live, 

I  were  thy  captive  yet. 


48  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

But  passion's  wild,  impetuous  sea 
Hurries  rne  far  from  peace  and  thee ; 

'T  were  vain  to  struggle  more. 
Thus  the  poor  sailor  slumbering  lies, 
While  swelling  tides  around  him  rise, 

And  push  his  bark  from  shore. 

In  vain  he  spreads  his  helpless  arms, 
His  pitying  friends  with  fond  alarms 

In  vain  deplore  his  state ; 
Still  far  and  farther  from  the  coast, 
On  the  high  surge  his  bark  is  tost, 

And  foundering  yields  to  fate. 


SONGL 

As  near  a  weeping  spring  reclined, 
The  beauteous  Araminta  pined, 
And  mourned  a  false,  ungrateful  youth.; 
While  dying  echoes  caught  the  sound, 
And  spread  the  soft  complaints  around 
Of  broken  vows  and  altered  truth ;  — 

An  aged  shepherd  heard  her  moan, 
And  thus  in  pity's  kindest  tone 
Addressed  the  lost,  despairing  maid  : 
"  Cease,  cease,  unhappy  fair,  to  grieve, 


SONGS.  49 

For  sounds,  though  sweet,  can  ne'er  relieve 
A  breaking  heart  by  love  betrayed. 

"  Why  shouldst  thou  waste  such  precious  showers, 

That  fall  like  dew  on  withered  flowers, 

But  dying  passion  ne'er  restored  ? 

In  Beauty's  empire  is  no  mean,  — 

And  woman,  either  slave  or  queen, 

Is  quickly  scorned  when  not  adored. 

u  Those  liquid  pearls  from  either  eye, 

Which  might  an  Eastern  empire  buy, 

Unvalued  here  and  fruitless  fall ; 

No  art  the  season  can  renew, 

When  love  was  young  and  Damon  true ; 

No  tears  a  wandering  heart  recall. 

"  Cease,  cease  to  grieve ;  thy  tears  are  vain, 
Should  those  fair  orbs  in  drops  of  rain 
Vie  with  a  weeping  southern  sky : 
For  hearts  o'ercome  with  love  and  grief 
All  nature  yields  but  one  relief;  — 
Die,  hapless  Araminta,  die  !  " 

VOL.    II.  3  D 


50  WOBKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 


SONG. 

When  first  upon  your  tender  cheek 
I  saw  the  morn  of  beauty  break 

With  mild  and  cheering  beam, 
I  bowed  before  your  infant  shrine ; 
The  earliest  sighs  you  had  were  mine, 

And  you  my  darling  theme. 

I  saw  you  in  that  opening  morn 
For  Beauty's  boundless  empire  born, 

And  first  confessed  your  sway ; 
And  ere  your  thoughts,  devoid  of  art, 
Could  learn  the  value  of  a  heart, 

I  gave  my  heart  away. 

I  watched  the  dawn  of  every  grace, 
And  gazed  upon  that  angel  face, 

\Yhile  yet  't  was  safe  to  gaze  ; 
And  fondly  blessed  each  rising  charm, 
Nor  thought  such  innocence  could  harm 

The  peace  of  future  days. 

But  now  despotic  o'er  the  plains 

The  awful  noon  of  beauty  reigns, 

And  kneeling  crowds  adore ; 


SOXGS.  51 

Its  beams  arise  too  fiercely  bright, 
Danger  and  death  attend  the  sight, 
And  I  must  hope  no  more. 

Thus  to  the  rising  God  of  day 
Their  early  vows  the  Persians  pay, 

And  bless  the  spreading  fire ; 
Whose  glowing  chariot,  mounting  soon, 
Pours  on  their  heads  the  burning  noon  ; 

They  sicken  and  expire. 


SONG.* 

Aspasia  rolls  her  sparkling  eyes, 
And  every  bosom  feels  her  power ; 

The  Indians  thus  view  Phoebus  rise, 
And  gaze  in  rapture,  and  adore, 

Quick  to  the  soul  the  piercing  splendors  dart, 

Fire  every  vein,  and  melt  the  coldest  heart. 

Aspasia  speaks ;  the  listening  crowd 
Drink  in  the  sound  with  greedy  ears, 

Mute  are  the  giddy  and  the  loud, 
And  self-admiring  Folly  hears. 

*  Dr.  Aikin's  "  Collection  of  Songs."  —  Ed. 


52         '  WORKS   OF   MBS.   BARBAULD. 

Her  wit  secures  the  conquests  of  her  face, 
Points  every  charm,  and  brightens  every  grace. 

Aspasia  moves  ;  her  well-turned  limbs 
Slide  stately  with  harmonious  ease ; 
Now  through  the  mazy  dance  she  swims, 

Like  a  tall  bark  o'er  summer  seas ; 
'T  was  thus  /Eneas  knew  the  queen  of  love, 
Majestic  moving  through  the  golden  grove. 

But  ah  !  how  cruel  is  my  lot, 
To  doat  on  one  so  heavenly  fair ! 

For  in  my  humble  state  forgot, 

Each  charm  but  adds  to  my  despair. 

The  tuneful  swan  thus  faintly  warbling  lies, 

Looks  on  his  mate,  and  while  he  sings  he  dies. 


TO    THE    BARON    DE    STONNE. 

"WITH  AIKIX'S  ESSAY  ON  SONG-WRITING. 

TO  Gallia's  gay  and  gallant  coast 
Haste,  little  volume,  speed  thy  flight ; 
And  proudly  there  go  make  thy  boast 
How  Britons  love  —  how  Britons  write. 


. 


EDWIN   AND    ETHELINDE.  53 

Say,  Love  can  hold  his  torch  as  high 
Beneath  our  heaven  deformed  with  showers, 
As  in  her  pure  and  brilliant  sky, 
By  vine-clad  hills  or  myrtle  bowers. 

Ask  if  her  damsels  bloom  more  fair ; 
Ask  if  her  swains  can  love  as  true  ; 
And  urge  her  poets'  tuneful  care 
To  sing  their  praise  in  numbers  due. 


ETWIX  AXD   ETHELIXDE.* 

u  f~\  XE  parting  kiss,  my  Ethel  inde  ! " 
V>/     Young  Edwin  faltering  cried, 

"  I  hear  thy  father's  hasty  tread, 
Nor  longer  must  I  bide. 

"  To-morrow  eve,  in  yonder  wood, 

Beneath  the  well-known  tree, 
Say,  wilt  thou  meet  thy  own  true  love, 

Whose  only  joy  's  in  thee  ?  " 

She  clasped  the  dear,  beloved  youth, 
And  sighed,  and  dropt  a  tear ; 

*  This  first  appeared  in  the    "Gentleman's   Magazine,"  then  in 
Aikin's  "  Collection  of  Songs  "(ed.  1810).  —  Ed. 


54  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

"  Whate'er  betide,  my  only  love, 
I  '11  surely  meet  thee  there." 

They  kiss,  they  part ;  a  listening  page, 

To  malice  ever  bent, 
O'erheard  their  talk,  and  to  his  lord 

Kevealed  their  fond  intent. 

The  baron's  brow  grew  dark  with  frowns, 
And  rage  clistained  his  cheek. 

"  Heavens  !  shall  a  vassal  shepherd  dare 
My  daughter's  love  to  seek  ! 

"  But  know  rash  boy,  thy  bold  attempt 
Full  sorely  shalt  thou  rue  ; 

Nor  e'er  again,  ignoble  maid, 
Shalt  thou  thy  lover  view." 

The  dews  of  evening  fast  did  fall, 
And  darkness  spread  apace, 

When  Ethelinde  with  beating  breast 
Flew  to  the  appointed  place. 

With  eager  eye  she  looks  around, 
No  Edwin  there  was  seen  ; 

"  He  was  not  wont  to  break  his  faith, 
What  can  his  absence  mean  ! " 


EDWIN   AND   ETHELINDE.  55 

Her  heart  beat  thick  at  every  noise, 

Each  rustling  through  the  wood ; 
And  now  she  traversed  quick  the  ground, 

And  now  she  listening  stood. 

Enlivening  hope  and  chilling  fear 

By  turns  her  bosom  share, 
And  now  she  calls  upon  his  name, 

Now  weeps  in  sad  despair. 

Meantime  the  day's  last  glimmerings  fled, 

And,  blackening  all  the  sky, 
A  hideous  tempest  dreadful  rose, 

And  thunders  rolled  on  high. 

Poor  Ethelinde  aghast,  dismayed, 

Beholds  with  wild  affright 
The  threatening  sky,  the  lonely  wood, 

And  horrors  of  the  night. 

"  Where  art  thou  now,  my  Edwi-n  dear ! 

Thy  friendly  aid  I  want ; 
Ah  me  !  my  boding  heart  foretells 

That  aid  thou  canst  not  grant." 

Thus  racked  with  pangs,  and  beat  with  storms, 
Confused  and  lost  she  roves ; 


56  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Now  looks  to  Heaven  with  earnest  prayer, 
Now  calls  on  him  she  loves. 

At  length  a  distant  taper's  ray 
Struck  beaming  on  her  sight ; 

Through  brakes  she  guides  her  fainting  steps 
Towards  the  welcome  light. 

An  aged  hermit  peaceful  dwelt 

In  this  sequestered  wild ; 
Calm  goodness  sat  upon  Lis  brow, 

His  words  were  soft  and  mild. 

He  oped  his  hospitable  door, 

And  much  admiring  viewed 
The  tender  virgin's  graceful  form, 

Dashed  by  the  tempest  rude. 

"  "Welcome,  fair  maid,  whoe'er  thou  art, 

To  this  warm,  sheltered  cell ; 
Here  rest  secure  thy  wearied  feet, 

Here  peace  and  safety  dwell." 

He  saw  the  heart-wrung  starting  tear, 

And  gently  sought  to  know, 
With  kindest  pity's  soothing  looks, 

The  story  of  her  woe. 


EDWIN   AND   ETIIELINDE.  57 

Scarce  had  she  told  her  mournful  tale, 
When,  struck  with  dread,  they  hear 

Voices  confused  with  dying  groans 
The  cell  approaching  near. 

"  Help,  father  !  help  ! "  they  loudly  cry, 

"  A  wretch  here  bleeds  to  death ; 
Some  cordial  balsam  quickly  give 

To  stay  his  parting  breath." 

All  deadly  pale  they  lay  him  down, 
And  gashed  with  many  a  wound ; 

When,  woful  sight !  't  was  Edwin's  self 
Lay  bleeding  on  the  ground. 

With  frantic  grief  poor  Ethelinde 

Beside  his  body  falls  ; 
"  Lift  up  thine  eyes,  my  Edwin  dear, 

'T  is  Ethelinde  that  calls  !  " 

That  much-loved  sound  recalls  his  life, 

He  lifts  his  closing  eyes, 
Then,  feebly  murmuring  out  her  name, 

He  gasps,  he  faints,  he  dies. 

Stupid  awhile,  in  dumb  despair 

She  gazed  on  Edwin  dead  ; 
Dim  grew  her  eyes,  her  lips  turned  pale, 

And  life's  warm  spirit  fled. 

3* 


58  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


TO  A  LADY. 

WITH  SOME   PAINTED   FLOWERS. 

....  tibi  lilia  plenis 
Ecce  ferunt  nymphoe  calathis. 

Virgil. 

FLOWERS  to  the  fair :  To  you  these  flowers  I  bring, 
And  strive  to  greet  you  with  an  earlier  spring. 
Flowers  sweet  and  gay  and  delicate  like  you, 
Emblems  of  innocence  and  beauty  too. 
With  flowers  the  Graces  bind  their  yellow  hair, 
And  flowery  wreaths  consenting  lovers  wear. 
Flowers,  the  sole  luxury  which  Nature  knew, 
In  Eden's  pure  and  guiltless  garden  grew. 
To  loftier  forms  are  rougher  tasks  assigned  ; 
The  sheltering  oak  resists  the  stormy  wind, 
The  tougher  yew  repels  invading  foes, 
And  the  tall  pine  for  future  navies  grows  ; 
But  this  soft  family,  to  cares  unknown, 
Were  born  for  pleasure  and  delight  alone  : 
Gay  without  toil,  and  lovely  without  art, 
They  spring  to  cheer  the  sense,  and  glad  the  heart. 
Nor  blush,  my  fair,  to  own  you  copy  these  ; 
Your  best,  your  sweetest  empire  is  —  to  please. 


ODE  TO  SPRING.  59 


ODE  TO   SPRING. 

SWEET  daughter  of  a  rough  and  stormy  sire, 
Hoar  Winter's  blooming  child ;  delightful  Spring ! 
Whose  unshorn  locks  with  leaves 
And  swelling  buds  are  crowned ; 

From  the  green  islands  of  eternal  youth,  — 

Crowned  with  fresh  blooms  and  ever-springing  shade, — 

Turn,  hither  turn  thy  step, 

0  thou,  whose  powerful  voice 

More  sweet  than  softest  touch  of  Doric  reed, 

Or  Lydian  flute,  can  soothe  the  madding  wind,  — 

And  through  the  stormy  deep 

Breathe  thine  own  tender  calm. 

Thee,  best  beloved  !  the  virgin  train  await 
With  songs  and  festal  rites,  and  joy  to  rove 

Thy  blooming  wilds  among, 

And  vales  and  dewy  lawns, 

With  untired  feet ;  and  cull  thy  earliest  sweets 
To  weave  fresh  garlands  for  the  glowing  brow 
Of  him,  the  favored  youth 
That  prompts  their  whispered  sigh. 


60  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Unlock  thy  copious  stores,  —  those  tender  showers 
That  drop  their  sweetness  on  the  infant  buds ; 

And  silent  dews  that  swell 

The  milky  ear's  green  stem, 

And  feed  the  flowering  osier's  early  shoots ; 

And  call  those  winds  which  through  the  whispering  boughs 

With  warm  and  pleasant  breath 

Salute  the  blowing  flowers. 

Now  let  me  sit  beneath  the  whitening  thorn, 
And  mark  thy  spreading  tints  steal  o'er  the  dale ; 

And  watch  with  patient  eye 

Thy  fail',  unfolding  charms. 

0  nymph,  approach !  while  yet  the  temperate  sun 
With  bashful  forehead  through  the  cool,  moist  air 

Throws  his  young,  maiden  beams, 

And  with  chaste  kisses  wooes 

The  earth's  fair  bosom ;  while  the  streaming  veil 
Of  lucid  clouds  with  kind  and  frequent  shade 

Protects  thy  modest  blooms 

From  his  severer  blaze. 

Sweet  is  thy  reign,  but  short :  —  The  red  dog-star 
Shall  scorch  thy  tresses,  and  the  mower's  scythe 

Thy  greens,  thy  flowerets  all, 

Eemorseless  shall  destroy. 


EPITHALAMIUM.  61 

Keluctant  shall  I  bid  thee  then  farewell ; 
For  0,  not  all  that  Autumn's  lap  contains, 

Nor  Summer's  ruddiest  fruits, 

Can  aught  for  thee  atone, 

Fair  Spring !  whose  simplest  promise  more  delights 
Than  all  their  largest  wealth,  and  through  the  heart 
Each  joy  and  new-born  hope 
With  softest  influence  breathes. 


EPITHALAMIUM.* 

VIEGIN",  brighter  than  the  morning, 
Haste  and  finish  thy  adorning ! 
Hymen  claims  his  promised  day,  — 
Come  from  thy  chamber,  come  away ! 

Boses  strew,  and  myrtles  bring, 
Till  you  drain  the  wasted  Spring ; 
The  altars  are  already  drest, 
The  bower  is  fitted  for  its  guest, 
The  scattered  rose  begins  to  fade,  — 
Come  away,  reluctant  maid  ! 

*  Designed  for  the  opening  of  a  tragedy. 


G2  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

See  what  a  war  of  blushes  breaks 
O'er  the  pure  whiteness  of  her  cheeks ; 
The  shifting  colors  prove  by  turns 
The  torch  of  Love  unsteady  burns. 
Pleading  now,  now  lingering,  fainting, 
Her  soft  heart  with  fear  is  panting ;  — 
Cling  not  to  thy  mother  so, 
Thy  mother  smiles,  and  bids  thee  go. 

Mind  not  what  thy  maidens  say ; 
Though  they  chide  the  cruel  day, 
Though  they  weep,  and  strive  to  hold  thee 
From  his  arms  that  would  infold  thee ; 
Kiss,  and  take  a  short  farewell,  — 
They  wish  the  chance  to  them  befell. 

Mighty  Love  demands  his  crown 
Now  for  all  his  sufferings  done  ; 
For  all  Love's  tears,  for  all  his  sighs, 
Thyself  must  be  the  sacrifice. 
Virgin,  brighter  than  the  day, 
Haste  from  thy  chamber,  come  away ! 


TO  A  DOG.  63 


TO   A  DOG. 


DEAB,  faithful  object  of  my  tender  care, 
Whom  but  my  partial  eyes  none  fancy  fair ; 
May  I  unblamed  display  thy  social  mirth, 
Thy  modest  virtues  and  domestic  worth  : 
Thou  silent,  humble  flatterer,  yet  sincere, 
More  swayed  by  love  than  interest  or  fear ; 
Solely  to  please,  thy  most  ambitious  view, 
As  lovers  fond,  and  iqpre  than  lovers  true. 
Who  can  resist  those  dumb,  beseeching  eyes, 
Where  genuine  eloquence  persuasive  lies  ? 
Those  eyes,  where  language  fails,  display  the  heart 
Beyond  the  pomp  of  phrase  and  pride  of  art. 
Thou  safe  companion,  and  almost  a  friend, 
Whose  kind  attachment  but  with  life  shall  end,  — 
Blest  were  mankind  if  many  a  prouder  name 
Could  boast  thy  grateful  truth  and  spotless  fame  ! 


64  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 


AN  ADDRESS   TO   THE  DEITY. 

aOD  of  my  life  !  and  author  of  my  days  ! 
Permit  my  feeble  voice  to  lisp  thy  praise ; 
And  trembling  take  upon  a  mortal  tongue 
That  hallowed  name  to  harps  of  seraphs  sung. 
Yet  here  the  brightest  seraphs  could  no  more 
Than  veil  their  faces,  tremble,  and  adore. 
"Worms,  angels,  men  in  every  different  sphere 
Are  equal  all,  —  for  all  are  nothing  here. 
All  nature  faints  beneath  the  mighty  name, 
Which  nature's  works  through  all  their  parts  proclaim. 
I  feel  that  name  my  inmost  thoughts  control, 
And  breathe  an  awful  stillness  through  my  soul ; 
As  by  a  charm  the  waves  of  grief  subside  ; 
Impetuous  Passion  stops  her  headlong  tide : 
At  thy  felt  presence  all  emotions  cease, 
And  my  hushed  spirit  finds  a  sudden  peace, 
Till  every  worldly  thought  within  me  dies, 
And  earth's  gay  pageants  vanish  from  my  eyes ; 
Till  all  my  sense  is  lost  in  infinite, 
And  one  vast  object  fills  my  aching  sight. 

But  soon  alas  !  this  holy  calm  is  broke ; 
My  soul  submits  to  wear  her  wonted  yoke ; 


AN   ADDRESS   TO   THE   DEITY.  G5 

With  shackled  pinions  strives  to  soar  in  vain, 
And  mingles  with  the  dross  of  earth  again. 
But  he,  our  gracious  Master,  kind  as  just, 
Knowing  our  frame,  remembers  man  is  dust. 
His  spirit,  ever  brooding  o'er  our  mind, 
Sees  the  first  wish  to  better  hopes  inclined ; 
Marks  the  young  dawn  of  every  virtuous  aim, 
And  fans  the  smoking  flax  into  a  flame. 
His  ears  are  open  to  the  softest  cry, 
His  grace  descends  to  meet  the  lifted  eye ; 
He  reads  the  language  of  a  silent  tear, 
And  sighs  are  incense  from  a  heart  sincere. 
Such  are  the  vows,  the  sacrifice  I  give ; 
Accept  the  vow,  and  bid  the  suppliant  live : 
From  each  terrestial  bondage  set  me  free ; 
Still  every  wish  that  centres  not  in  thee ; 
Bid  my  fond  hopes,  my  vain  disquiets  cease, 
And  point  my  path  to  everlasting  peace. 

If  the  soft  hand  of  winning  Pleasure  leads 
By  living  waters  and  through  flowery  meads, 
When  all  is  smiling,  tranquil,  and  serene, 
And  vernal  beauty  paints  the  flattering  scene, 
0,  teach  me  to  elude  each  latent  snare, 
And  whisper  to  my  sliding  heart  —  Beware  ! 
With  caution  let  me  hear  the  siren's  voice, 
And  doubtful,  with  a  trembling  heart,  rejoice. 


G6  WOEKS   OF   MBS.    BARBAULD. 

If  friendless  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray, 
Where  briers  wound,  and  thorns  perplex  my  way, 
Still  let  my  steady  soul  thy  goodness  see, 
And  with  strong  confidence  lay  hold  on  thee ; 
"With  equal  eye  my  various  lot  receive, 
Eesigned  to  die,  or  resolute  to  live ; 
Prepared  to  kiss  the  sceptre  or  the  rod, 
"While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 

I  read  his  awful  name,  emblazoned  high 
With  golden  letters  on  the  illumined  sky ; 
Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see 
"Wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  on  every  tree ; 
In  every  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze 
I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees ; 
"With  thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk, 
"With  thee  in  busy,  crowded  cities  talk, 
In  every  creature  own  thy  forming  power, 
In  each  event  thy  providence  adore. 
Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul, 
Thy  precepts  guide  me,  and  thy  fear  control : 
Thus  shall  I  rest,  unmoved  by  all  alarms, 
Secure  within  the  temple  of  thine  arms ; 
From  anxious  cares,  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  thee. 

Then  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh, 
And  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye ; 


A  SUMMER  EVENING'S   MEDITATION.  C7 

When  trembling  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate 
I  stand  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state : 
Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene 
With  decent  triumph  and  a  look  serene  ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high, 
And,  having  lived  to  thee,  in  thee  to  die. 


A  SUMMEE  EVENING'S  MEDITATION. 

TV\  IS  past !     The  sultry  tyrant  of  the  south 

JL    Has  spent  his  short-lived  rage ;  more  grateful  hours 
Move  silent  on  ;  the  skies  no  more  repel 
The  dazzled  sight,  but  with  mild,  maiden  beams 
Of  tempered  lustre  court  the  cherished  eye 
To  wander  o'er  their  sphere ;  where  hung  aloft 
Dian's  bright  crescent,  like  a  silver  bow 
New  strung  in  heaven,  lifts  high  its  beamy  horns 
Impatient  for  the  night,  and  seems  to  push 
Her  brother  down  the  sky.     Fair  Venus  shines 
Even  in  the  eye  of  day  ;  with  sweetest  beam 
Propitious  shines,  and  shakes  a  trembling  flood 
Of  softened  radiance  from  her  dewy  locks. 
The  shadows  spread  apace  ;  while  meekened  Eve, 
Her  cheek  yet  warm  with  blushes,  slow  retires 
Through  the  Hesperian  gardens  of  the  west, 


G8  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

And  shuts  the  gates  of  day.     'T  is  now  the  hour 

When  Contemplation,  from  her  sunless  haunts, 

The  cool  damp  grotto,  or  the  lonely  depth 

Of  unpierced  woods,  where  wrapt  in  solid  shade 

She  mused  away  the  gaudy  hours  of  noon, 

And  fed  on  thoughts  unripened  by  the  sun, 

Moves  forward  ;  and  with  radiant  finger  points 

To  yon  blue  concave  swelled  by  breath  divine, 

"When,  one  by  one,  the  living  eyes  of  heaven 

Awake,  quick  kindling  o'er  the  face  of  ether 

One  boundless  blaze  ;  ten  thousand  trembling  fires, 

And  dancing  lustres,  where  the  unsteady  eye, 

Eestless  and  dazzled,  wanders  unconfined 

O'er  all  this  field  of  glories ;  spacious  field, 

And  worthy  of  the  Master :  he  whose  hand 

With  hieroglyphics  elder  than  the  Kile 

Inscribed  the  mystic  tablet,  hung  on  high 

To  public  gaze,  and  said,  "  Adore,  0  man ! 

The  finger  of  thy  God."     From  what  pure  wells 

Of  milky  light,  what  soft  o'erflowing  urn, 

Are  all  these  lamps  so  fill'd  ?  these  friendly  lamps, 

Forever  streaming  o'er  the  azure  deep 

To  point  our  path,  and  light  us  to  our  home. 

How  soft  they  slide  along  their  lucid  spheres  ! 

And  silent  as  the  foot  of  Time,  fulfil 

Their  destined  courses  :  Xature's  self  is  hushed, 

And,  but  a  scattered  leaf,  which  rustles  through 


A  SUMMER  EVENING'S   MEDITATION.  69 

The  thick-wove  foliage,  not  a  sound  is  heard 

To  break  the  midnight  air ;  though  the  raised  ear, 

Intensely  listening,  drinks  in  every  breath. 

How  deep  the  silence,  yet  how  loud  the  praise  ! 

But  are  they  silent  all  ?  or  is  there  not 

A  tongue  in  every  star  that  talks  with  man, 

And  wooes  him  to  be  wise  ?  nor  wooes  in  vain  : 

This  dead  of  midnight  is  the  noon  of  thought, 

And  Wisdom  mounts  her  zenith  with  the  stars. 

At  this  still  hour  the  self-collected  soul 

Turns  inward,  and  behold  a  stranger  there 

Of  high  descent,  and  more  than  mortal  rank  ; 

An  embryo  God  ;  a  spark  of  fire  divine 

"Which  must  burn  on  for  ages,  when  the  sun. — 

Fair  transitory  creature  of  a  day  !  — 

Has  closed  his  golden  eye,  and  wrapt  in  shades 

Forgets  his  wonted  journey  through  the  east. 

Ye  citadels  of  light,  and  seats  of  gods  ! 
Perhaps  my  future  home,  from  whence  the  soul, 
Eevolving  periods  past,  may  oft  look  back, 
With  recollected  tenderness,  on  all 
The  various  busy  scenes  she  left  below, 
Its  deep-laid  projects  and  its  strange  events, 
As  on  some  fond  and  doting  tale  that  soothed 
Her  infant  hours,  —  0  be  it  lawful  now 
To  tread  the  hallowed  circle  of  your  courts, 


70  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

And  with  mute  wonder  and  delighted  awe 

Approach  your  burning  confines.     Seized  in  thought, 

On  Fancy's  wild  and  roving  wing  I  sail 

From  the  green  borders  of  the  peopled  Earth, 

And  the  pale  Moon,  her  duteous  fair  attendant ; 

From  solitary  Mars  •  from  the  vast  orb 

Of  Jupiter,  whose  huge  gigantic  bulk 

Dances  in  ether  like  the  lightest  leaf ; 

To  the  dim  verge,  the  suburbs  of  the  system, 

Where  cheerless  Saturn  'midst  his  watery  moons, 

Girt  with  a  lucid  zone,  in  gloomy  pomp, 

Sits  like  an  exiled  monarch  :  fearless  thence 

I  launch  into  the  trackless  deeps  of  space, 

When,  burning  round,  ten  thousand  suns  appear, 

Of  elder  beam,  which  ask  no  leave  to  shine 

Of  our  terrestial  star,  nor  borrow  light 

From  the  proud  regent  of  our  scanty  day  ; 

Sons  of  the  morning,  first-born"  of  creation, 

And  only  less  than  him  who  marks  their  track, 

And  guides  their  fiery  wheels.     Here  must  I  stop, 

Or  is  there  aught  beyond  ?     What  hand  unseen 

Impels  me  onward  through  the  glowing  orbs 

Of  habitable  nature,  far  remote, 

To  the  dread  confines  of  eternal  night, 

To  solitudes  of  vast  unpeopled  space, 

The  deserts  of  creation,  wide  and  wild  ; 

Where  embryo  systems  and  unkindled  suns 


A   SUMMER   EVENING'S   MEDITATION.  71 

Sleep  in  the  womb  of  chaos  ?  fancy  droops, 
And  thought  astonished  stops  her  bold  career. 
But  0  thou  mighty  mind  !  whose  powerful  word 
Said,  thus  let  all  things  be,  and  thus  they  were, 
Where  shall  I  seek  thy  presence  ?  how  unblamed 
Invoke  thy  dread  perfection  ? 
Have  the  broad  eyelids  of  the  morn  beheld  thee  ? 
Or  does  the  beamy  shoulder  of  Orion 
Support  thy  throne  ?     0,  look  with  pity  down 
On  erring,  guilty  man  !  not  in  thy  names 
Of  terror  clad ;  not  with  those  thunders  armed 
That  conscious  Sinai  felt,  when  fear  appalled 
The  scattered  tribes  ;  —  thou  hast  a  gentler  voice, 
That  whispers  comfort  to  the  swelling  heart, 
Abashed,  yet  longing  to  behold  her  Maker. 

But  now  my  soul,  unused  to  stretch  her  powers 
In  flight  so  daring,  drojDS  her  weary  wing, 
And  seeks  again  the  known,  accustomed  spot, 
Drest  up  with  sun,  and  shade,  and  lawns,  and  streams, 
A  mansion  fair,  and  spacious  for  its  guest, 
And  full  replete  with  wonders.     Let  me  here, 
Content  and  grateful,  wait  the  appointed  time, 
And  ripen  for  the  skies  :  the  hour  will  come 
When  all  these  splendors  bursting  on  my  sight 
Shall  stand  unveiled,  and  to  my  ravished  sense 
Unlock  the  glories  of  the  world  unknown. 


72  WOKKS   OF   MUS.    BARBAULD. 


THE   EPIPIIAXY. 

DEEP  in  Sabea's  fragrant  groves  retired, 
Long  had  the  Eastern  Sages  studious  dwelt, 
By  love  sublime  of  sacred  science  fired  : 

Long  had  they  trained  the  inquiring  youth, 
With  liberal  hand  the  bread  of  wisdom  dealt, 
And  sung  in  solemn  verse  mysterious  truth. 
The  sacred  characters  they  knew  to  trace 

Derived  from  Egypt's  elder  race  ; 
And  all  that  Greece,  with  copious  learning  fraught, 
Through  different  schools  by  various  masters  taught ; 

And  all  Arabia's  glowing  store 
Of  fabled  truths  and  rich  poetic  lore  : 
Stars,  plants,  and  gems,  and  talismans  they  knew, 
And  far  was  spread  their  fame  and  wide  their  praises 

grew. 
The  admiring  East  their  praises  spread ; 
But  with  uncheated  eyes  themselves  they  viewed ; 
Mourning  they  sat  with  dust  upon  their  head, 

And  oft  in  melancholy  strain 
The  fond  complaint  renewed, 
How  little  yet  they  knew,  how  much  was  learned  in  vain. 

For  human  guilt  and  mortal  woe 

Their  sympathizing  sorrows  flow ; 


THE  EPIPHANY.  73 

Their  hallowed  prayers  ascend  in  incense  pure ; 
They  mourned  the  narrow  bounds  assigned 

To  the  keen  glances  of  the  searching  mind, 
They  mourned  the  ills  they  could  not  cure, 
They  mourned  the  doubts  they  could  not  clear, 
They  mourned  that  prophet  yet,  nor  seer, 
The  great  Eternal  had  made  known, 

Or  reached  the  lowest  step  of  that  immortal  throne. 

And  oft  the  starry  cope  of  heaven  beneath, 

When  day's  tumultuous  sounds  had  ceased  to  breathe, 

"With  fixed  feet,  as  rooted  there, 
Through  the  long  night  they  drew  the  chilly  air ; 

"While  sliding  o'er  their  head, 

In  solemn  silence  dread, 
The  ethereal  orbs  their  shining  course  pursued, 
In  holy  trance  enwrapt  the  sages  stood, 
With  folded  arms  laid  on  their  reverend  breast, 
And  to  that  Heaven  they  knew,  their  orisons  addrest. 

A  Star  appears ;  they  marked  its  kindling  beam 
O'er  night's  dark  breast  unusual  splendors  stream ; 

The  lesser  lights  that  deck  the  sky, 
In  wondering  silence  softly  gliding  by, 
•     At  the  fair  stranger  seemed  to  gaze, 
Or  veiled  their  trembling  fires  and  half  withdrew  their 
rays. 

4 


74  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

The  blameless  men  the  wonder  saw, 
And  hailed  the  joyful  sign  with  pions  awe  ; 

They  knew  't  was  none  of  all  the  train 
With  which  in  shadowy  forms  and  shapes  uncouth, 
Monsters  of  earth  and  of  the  main, 
Eemote  from  nature  as  from  truth, 

Their  learned  pens  the  sky  had  figured  o'er ; 

No  star  with  such  kind  aspect  shone  before ; 

Nor  e'er  did  wandering  planet  stoop  so  low 
To  guide  benighted  pilgrims  through  this  vale  of  woe. 

The  heavenly  impulse  they  obey, 
The  new-born  light  directs  their  way ; 
Through  deserts  never  marked  by  human  tread, 
And  billowy  waves  of  loose,  unfaithful  sand, 
O'er  many  an  unknown  hill  and  foreign  strand, 

The  silver  clew  unerring  led, 
And  peopled  towns  they  pass,  and  glittering  spires ; 
No  cloud  could  veil  its  light,  no  sun  could  quench  its  fires. 

Thus  passed  the  venerable  pilgrims  on, 

Till  Salem's  stately  towers  before  them  shone, 

And  soon  their  feet  her  hallowed  pavements  prest ; 

Not  in  her  marble  courts  to  rest,  — 
From  pomp  and  royal  state  aloof, 
Their  shining  guide  its  beams  withdrew  ; 
And  points  their  path,  and  points  their  view, 


TO   MR.   BARBAULD.  75 

To  Bethlehem's  rustic  cots,  to  Mary's  lowly  roof. 

There  the  bright  sentinel  kept  watch, 

While  other  stars  arose  and  set ; 

For  there,  within  its  humble  thatch, 
Weakness  and  power,  and  heaven  and  earth  were  met. 

Now,  sages,  now  your  search  give  o'er, 

Believe,  fall  prostrate,  and  adore  ! 
Here  spread  your  spicy  gifts,  your  golden  offerings  here ; 

No  more  the  fond  complaint  renew, 

Of  human  guilt  and  mortal  woe, 
Of  knowledge  checked  by  doubt,  and  hope  with  fear ; 

What  angels  wished  to  see,  ye  view ; 

What  angels  wished  to  learn,  ye  know ;  — 
Peace  is  proclaimed  to  man,  and  heaven  begun  below. 


TO   ME.   BABBAULD, 

WITH  A  MAP  OF  THE  LAND  OF  MATRIMONY* 

THE  sailor,  worn  by  toil  and  wet  with  storms, 
As  in  the  wished-for  port  secure  he  rides, 
With  transport  numbers  o'er  the  dangers  past 
From  threatening  quicksands  and  from  adverse  tides. 

*  The  map,  published  under  this  title,  was  a  jeu-tfesprit  of  Mrs. 
Barbauld's.  —  Ed. 


76  WOBKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Joyous  lie  tells  among  his  jocund  mates 
Of  loud  alarms  that  chased  his  broken  sleep, 
And  blesses  every  kinder  star  that  led 
His  favored  vessel  through  the  raging  deep. 

Thus  canst  thou,  Eochemont,  view  this  pictured  chart, 
And  trace  thy  voyage  to  the  promised  shore ; 
Thus  does  thy  faithful  bosom  beat  with  joy, 
To  think  the  tempest  past,  the  wanderings  o'er  ? 

Canst  thou  recall  the  days  when  jealous  Doubt, 
When  boding  Fears  thy  anxious  heart  opprest, 
When  Hope,  our  star,  shone  faintly  through  the  gloom, 
And  the  pale  cheek  betrayed  the  tortured  breast  ? 

And  say  ;  —  the  land  through  Fancy's  glass  descried, 
The  bright  Elysian  fields  her  pencil  drew,  — 
Has  time  the  dear  ideas  realized  ? 
Or  are  her  optics  false,  her  tints  untrue  ? 

0,  say  they  are  not !  —  Though  life's  ceaseless  cares, 
Life's  ceaseless  toils,  demand  thy  golden  hours, 
Tell  her  glad  heart  whose  hand  these  lines  confess, 
That  Peace  resides  in  Hymen's  happy  bowers. 

But  soon  the  restless  seaman  longs  to  change 
His  bounded  view  and  tempt  the  deeps  again ; 


LOVE   AND    TIME.  77 

Careless  he  breaks  from  weeping  Susan's  arms, 
To  fight  with  billows  and  to  plough  the  main. 

So  shalt  not  thou,  for  no  returning  prow 
E'er  cut  the  ocean  which  thy  bark  has  past ; 
For  strong,  relentless  Fate  has  fixed  her  bars, 
And  I  my  destined  captive  hold  too  fast. 


LOYE  AXD   TDLE. 


TO  MRS.   MULSO. 


OX  Stella's  brow  as  lately  envious  Time 
His  crooked  lines  with  iron  pencil  traced, 
That  brow,  erewhile  like  ivory  tablets  smooth, 
With  Love's  high  trophies  hung,  and  victories  graced, 
Digging  him  little  caves  in  every  cell, 
And  every  dimple,  once  where  Love  was  wont  to  dwell ; 

He  spied  the  God :  and  wondered  still  to  spy, 
Who  higher  held  his  torch  in  Time's  despite ; 
Nor  seemed  to  care  for  aught  that  he  could  do. 
Then  sternly  thus  he  sought  him  thence  to  affright : 
.  The  sovereign  boy,  entrenched  in  a  smile, 
At  his  sour,  crabbed  speech  sat  mocking  all  the  while. 


78  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

"  What  dost  thou  here,  fond  boy  ?    Away,  for  shame  ! 
Mine  is  this  held,  by  conquest  fairly  won ; 
Love  cannot  reap  his  joys  where  Time  has  ploughed, 
Thou  and  thy  light-winged  troop  should  now  be  gone. 
Go  revel  with  fresh  youth  in  scenes  of  folly, 
Sage  Thought  I  bring,  and  Care,  and  pale-eyed  Melancholy. 

"  Thy  streams  are  froze,  that  once  so  briskly  ran, 
Thy  bough  is  shaken  by  the  mellow  year ; 
Boreas  and  Zephyr  dwell  not  in  one  cave, 
And  swallows  spread  their  wings  when  winter  'a  near ; 
See  where  Florella's  cheeks  soft  bloom  disclose, 
Go  seek  the  springing  bud,  and  leave  the  faded  rose." 

Thus  spake  old  Time,  of  Love  the  deadliest  foe,  — 
Ah  me,  that  gentle  Love  such  foes  should  meet  ! 
But  nothing  daimted  he  returned  again, 
Tempering  with  looks  austere  his  native  sweet ; 
And,  "  Fool : "  said  he,  "  to  think  I  e'er  shall  fly 
From  that  rich  palace  where  my  choicest  treasures  lie ! 

"  Dost  thou  not  see  —  or  art  thou  blind  with  age  — 
How  many  Graces  on  her  eyelids  sit, 
Linking  those  viewless  chains  that  bind  the  soul, 
And  sharpening  smooth  discourse  with  pointed  wit ; 
How  many,  where  she  moves,  attendant  wait, 
The  slow  smooth  step  inspire,  or  high  commanding  gait  ? 


LOVE    AXD    TIME.  79 

"  Each  one  a  several  charm  around  her  throws, 
Some  to  attract,  some  powerful  to  repel, 
Some  mix  the  honeyed  speech  with  winning  smiles, 
Or  call  wild  Laughter  from  his  antic  cell, 
Severer  some,  to  strike  with  awful  fear 
Each  rude  licentious  tongue  that  wounds  the  virtuous  ear. 

"  Not  one  of  them  is  of  thy  scythe  in  dread, 
Or  for  thy  cankered  malice  careth  aught ; 
Thy  shaking  fingers  never  can  untwist 
The  magic  cestus  by  their  cunning  wrought ; 
And  I,  their  knight,  their  bidding  must  obey, 
For  where  the  Graces  are  will  Love  forever  stay. 

"  In  my  rich  fields  now  boast  the  ravage  done 
Those  lesser  spoils,  —  her  brow,  her  cheek,  her  hair, 
All  that  the  touches  of  decay  can  feel,  — 
Take  these,  she  has  enough  to  spare ; 
I  cannot  thee  dislodge,  nor  shalt  thou  me, 
So  thou  and  I,  old  Time,  perforce  must  once  agree. 

"Nor  is  the  boasted  ravage  all  thine  own, 
Nor  was  the  field  by  conquest  fairly  gained ; 
For,  leagued  with  Sickness,  Life,  and  Nature's  foe, 
That  fiend  accurst  thy  savage  wars  maintained ; 
His  hand  the  furrows  sunk  where  thou  didst  plough, 
He  undermined  the  tree,  where  thou  didst  shake  the 
bomrh. 


80  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

"  But  both  unite,  for  both  I  here  defy ; 
Spoils  ye  have  made,  but  have  no  triumphs  won ; 
And  though  the  daffodil  more  freshly  blooms, 
Spreading  her  gay  leaves  to  the  morning  sun ; 
Yet  never  will  I  leave  the  faded  rose, 
"Whilst  the  pale  lovely  flower  such  sweetness  still  be- 
stows." 

Tliis  said,  exulting  Cupid  clapped  his  wings. 
The  sullen  power,  who  found  his  rage  restrained, 
And  felt  the  strong  control  of  higher  charms, 
Shaking  his  glass,  vowed  while  the  sands  would  run 
For  many  a  year  the  strife  should.be  maintained ; 
But  Jove  decreed  no  force  should  Love  destroy, 
Xor  Time  should  quell  the  might  of  that  immortal  boy. 


TO   MISS   F.   B., 

ON  HER  ASKING  FOR  MRS.  B.'S   •'LOVE  AND  TIME." 

OF  Love  and  Time  say  what  would  Fanny  know ? 
That  time  is  precious,  and  that  love  is  sweet  ? 
That  both,  the  choicest  blessings  lent  below, 
With  gay  sixteen  in  envied  union  meet  ? 


TO-MORROW.  81 

Time  without  Love  is  tasteless,  dull,  and  cold, 
Love  out  of  Time  will  fond  and  doting  prove  ; 
To  bright  sixteen  are  all  their  treasures  told, 
Love  suits  the  Time,  and  Time  then  favors  Love. 

No  longer  then  of  matron  brows  inquire 
For  sprightly  Love,  or  swiftly  wasting  Time ; 
Look  but  at  home,  you  have  what  you  require,  — 
With  gay  sixteen  they  both  are  in  their  prime. 


s: 


TO-MORROW. 

EE  where  the  falling  day 
In  silence  steals  away 
Behind  the  western  hills  withdrawn  : 
Her  fires  are  quenched,  her  beauty  fled, 
While  blushes  all  her  face  o'erspread, 
As  conscious  she  had  ill  fulfilled 
The  promise  of  the  dawn. 

Another  morning  soon  shall  rise, 
Another  day  salute  our  eyes, 
As  smiling  and  as  fair  as  she, 
And  make  as  many  promises : 

4*  i 


82  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

But  do  not  thou 
The  tale  believe, 
They  're  sisters  all, 
And  all  deceive. 


WRITTEN   OX  A  MARBLE. 

THE  world 's  something  bigger, 
But  just  of  this  figure, 
And  speckled  with  mountains  and  seas ; 
Your  heroes  are  overgrown  school-boys 
"Who  scuffle  for  empires  and  toys, 
And  kick  the  poor  ball  as  they  please. 
Now  Csesar,  now  Pompey,  gives  law ; 
And  Pharsalia's  plain, 
Though  heaped  with  the  slain, 
Was  only  a  game  at  taw. 


LIXES 

PLACED  OVER  A  CHIMNEY-PIECE. 

SURLY  Winter,  come  not  here ; 
Bluster  in  thy  proper  sphere ; 
Howl  along  the  naked  plain, 
There  exert  thy  joyless  reign ; 


WHAT   DO   THE   FUTURES   SPEAK   OF?  83 

Triumph  o'er  the  withered  flower, 

The  leafless  shrub,  the  ruined  bower, 

But  our  cottage  come  not  near ;  — 

Other  springs  inhabit  here, 

Other  sunshine  decks  our  board, 

Than  the  niggard  skies  afford. 

Gloom)'  Winter,  hence  !  away ! 

Love  and  Fancy  scorn  thy  sway ; 

Love  and  Joy,  and  friendly  Mirth, 

Shall  bless  this  roof,  these  walls,  this  hearth ; 

The  rigor  of  the  year  control, 

And  thaw  the  winter  in  the  souL 


WHAT  DO   THE  FUTUEES   SPEAK   OF? 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A  QUESTION  IN  THE  GREEK  GRAMMAR. 

THEY  speak  of  never- withering  shades, 
And  bowers  of  opening  joy  ; 
They  promise  mines  of  fairy  gold, 
And  bliss  without  alloy. 

They  whisper  strange,  enchanting  things 

Within  Hope's  greedy  ears  ; 
And  sure  this  tuneful  voice  exceeds 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 


84  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

They  speak  of  pleasure  to  the  gay, 
And  wisdom  to  the  wise  ; 

And  soothe  the  poet's  beating  heart 
With  fame  that  never  dies. 

To  virgins  languishing  in  love 
They  speak  the  minute  nigh  ; 

And  warm,  consenting  hearts  they  join, 
And  paint  the  rapture  high. 

In  every  language,  every  tongue, 
The  same  kind  things  they  say ; 

In  gentle  slumbers  speak  by  night, 
In  waking  dreams  by  day. 

Cassandra's  fate  reversed  is  theirs  ; 

She  true,  no  faith  could  gain, 
They  every  passing  hour  deceive, 

Yet  are  believed  again. 


AUTUMN.  85 


AUTUMN. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

FAREWELL  the  softer  hours,  spring's  opening  blush 
And  summer's  deeper  glow,  the  shepherd's  pipe 
Tuned  to  the  murmurs  of  a  weeping  spring, 
And  song  of  birds,  and  gay,  enamelled  fields,  — 
Farewell !     'T  is  now  the  sickness  of  the  year, 
Not  to  be  medicined  by  the  skilful  hand. 
Pale  suns  arise  that  like  weak  kings  behold 
Their  predecessor's  empire  moulder  from  them  ; 
While  swift-increasing  spreads  the  black  domain 
Of  melancholy  Night ;  —  no  more  content 
With  equal  sway,  her  stretching  shadows  gain 
On  the  bright  morn,  and  cloud  the  evening  sky. 
Farewell  the  careless,  lingering  walk  at  eve, 
Sweet  with  the  breath  of  kine  and  new-spread  hay ; 
And  slumber  on  a  bank,  where  the  lulled  youth, 
His  head  on  flowers,  delicious  languor  feels 
Creep  in  the  blood.     A  different  season  now 
Invites  a  different  song.     The  naked  trees 
Admit  the  tempest ;  rent  is  Nature's  robe  ; 
Fast,  fast  the  blush  of  summer  fades  away 
From  her  wan  cheek,  and  scarce  a  flower  remains 
To  deck  her  bosom  ;  winter  follows  close, 


86  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Pressing  impatient  on,  and  with  rude  breath 

Fans  her  discolored  tresses.     Yet  not  all 

Of  grace  and  beauty  from  the  falling  year 

Is  torn  ungenial.     Still  the  taper  fir 

Lifts  its  green  spire,  and  the  dark  holly  edged 

With  gold,  and  many  a  strong  perennial  plant, 

Yet  cheer  the  waste  :  nor  does  yon  knot  of  oaks 

Eesign  its  honors  to  the  infant  blast. 

This  is  the  time,  and  these  the  solemn  walks, 

When  inspiration  rushes  o'er  the  soul 

Sudden,  as  through  the  grove  the  rustling  breeze. 


OX  A  LADY'S   WRITING. 

HER  even  lines  her  steady  temper  show, 
Neat  as  her  dress,  and  polished  as  her  brow ; 
Strong  as  her  judgment,  easy  as  her  air ; 
Correct  though  free,  and  regular  though  fair : 
And  the  same  graces  o'er  her  pen  preside, 
That  form  her  manners  and  her  footsteps  guide. 


AN  AUTUMNAL   THOUGHT.  87 

AN  AUTUMNAL  THOUGHT. 

1795. 

TTl  IS  past !  we  breathe  !  assuaged  at  length 
JL    The  flames  that  drank  our  vital  strength  ! 
Smote  with  intolerable  heat 
No  more  our  throbbing  temples  beat. 
How  clear  the  sky,  how  pure  the  air, 
The  heavens  how  bright,  the  earth  how  fair  ! 
The  bosom  cool,  the  spirits  light, 
Active  the  day,  and  calm  the  night ! 

But  0,  the  swiftly  shortening  day ! 
Low  in  the  west  the  sinking  ray  ! 
"With  rapid  pace  advancing  still 
"  The  morning  hoar,  the  evening  chill," 
The  falling  leaf,  the  fading  year, 
And  Winter  ambushed  in  the  rear  ! 

Thus,  when  the  fervid  Passions  cool, 
And  Judgment,  late,  begins  to  rule ; 
When  Eeason  mounts  her  throne  serene, 
And  social  Friendship  gilds  the  scene ; 
When  man,  of  ripened  powers  possest, 
Broods  o'er  the  treasures  of  his  breast ; 
Exults,  in  conscious  worth  elate, 


88 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


Lord  of  himself,  —  almost  of  fate ; 
Then,  then  declines  the  unsteady  flame, 
Disease,  slow  mining,  saps  the  frame ; 
Cold  damps  of  age  around  are  shed 
That  chill  the  heart  and  cloud  the  head. 
The  failing  spirits  prompt  no  more, 
The  curtain  drops,  life's  day  is  o'er. 


ON  THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE. 


IN  vain  fair  Auburn  weeps  her  desert  plains, 
She  moves  our  envy  who  so  well  complains ; 
In  vain  has  proud  oppression  laid  her  low, 
So  sweet  a  garland  on  her  faded  brow. 
Now,  Auburn,  now  absolve  impartial  fate, 
Which  if  it  made  thee  wretched,  makes  thee  great ; 
So,  unobserved,  some  humble  plant  may  bloom, 
Till  crushed  it  fills  the  air  with  sweet  perfume. 
So  had  thy  swains  in  ease  and  plenty  slept, 
Thy  Poet  had  not  sung,  nor  Britain  wept. 
Nor  let  Britannia  mourn  her  drooping  bay, 
Unhonored  genius,  and  her  swift  decay ; 
0  Patron  of  the  poor !  it  cannot  be, 
While  one  —  one  Poet  yet  remains  like  thee ! 
Nor  can  the  Muse  desert  our  favored  isle, 
Till  thou  desert  the  Muse  and  scorn  her  smile. 


HYMN.  89 


HYMN. 

"Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  earth." 

SALT  of  the  earth,  ye  virtuous  few, 
Who  season  human-kind ; 
Light  of  the  world,  whose  cheering  ray 
Illumes  the  realms  of  mind : 

Where  Misery  spreads  her  deepest  shade, 

Your  strong  compassion  glows  ; 
From  your  blest  lips  the  balm  distils, 

That  softens  mortal  woes. 

By  dying-beds,  in  prison  glooms, 

Your  frequent  steps  are  found  ; 
Angels  of  love  !  you  hover  near, 

To  bind  the  stranger's  wound. 

You  wash  with  tears  the  bloody  page 

Which  human  crimes  deform  ; 
When  vengeance  threats,  your  prayers  ascend 

And  break  the  gathering  storm. 

As  down  the  summer  stream  of  vice 
The  thoughtless  many  glide ; 


90  "WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Upward  you  steer  your  steady  bark, 
And  stem  the  rushing  tide. 

"Where  guilt  her  foul  contagion  breathes, 

And  golden  spoils  allure  ; 
Unspotted  still  your  garments  shine,  — 

Your  hands  are  ever  pure. 

"Whene'er  you  touch  the  poet's  lyre, 

A  loftier  strain  is  heard ; 
Each  ardent  thought  is  yours  alone, 

And  every  burning  word. 

Yours  is  the  large,  expansive  thought, 

The  high,  heroic  deed  ; 
Exile  and  chains  to  you  are  dear,  — 

To  you  't  is  sweet  to  bleed. 

You  lift  on  high  the  warning  voice, 

When  public  ills  prevail ; 
Yours  is  the  writing  on  the  wall 

That  turns  the  tyrant  pale. 

The  dogs  of  hell  your  steps  pursue, 
With  scoff,  and  shame,  and  loss. 

The  hemlock  bowl 't  is  yours  to  drain, 
To  taste  the  bitter  cross. 


HYMN.  91 

E'en  yet  the  steaming  scaffolds  smoke 

By  Seine's  polluted  stream  ; 
With  your  rich  blood  the  fields  are  drenched 

Where  Polish  sabres  gleam. 

E'en  now,  through  those  accursed  bars 

In  vain  we  send  our  sighs  ; 
Where,  deep  in  Olmutz'  dungeon  glooms, 

The  patriot  martyr  lies. 

Yet  yours  is  all  through  History's  rolls 

The  kindling  bosom  feels  ; 
And  at  your  tomb,  with  throbbing  heart, 

The  fond  enthusiast  kneels. 

In  every  faith,  through  every  clime, 

Your  pilgrim  steps  we  trace  ; 
And  shrines  are  dressed,  and  temples  rise, 

Each  hallowed  spot  to  grace ; 

And  paeans  loud,  in  every  tongue, 

And  choral  hymns  resound ; 
And  lengthening  honors  hand  your  name 

To  time's  remotest  bound. 

Proceed  !  your  race  of  glory  run, 

Your  virtuous  toils  endure  ! 
You  come,  commissioned  from  on  high, 

And  your  reward  is  sure. 


92 


WORKS   OF   MRS.   BAEBAULD. 


WASHIXG-DAY. 

" .  .  .  .  And  their  voice, 
TurniDg  again  towards  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  its  sound." 


THE  Muses  are  turned  gossips  ;  they  have  lost 
The  buskined  step,  and  clear,  high-sounding  phrase, 
Language  of  gods.     Come,  then,  domestic  Muse, 
In  slipshod  measure  loosely  prattling  on 
Of  farm  or  orchard,  pleasant  curds  and  cream, 
Or  drowning  flies,  or  shoe  lost  in  the  mire 
By  little  whimpering  boy,  with  rueful  face  ; 
Come,  Muse,  and  sing  the  dreaded  Washing-day. 
Ye  who  beneath  the  yoke  of  wedlock  bend, 
With  bowed  soul,  full  well  ye  ken  the  day 
Which  week,  smooth  sliding  after  week,  brings  on 
Too  soon; — for  to  that  day  nor  peace  belongs, 
Xor  comfort ;  ere  the  first  gray  streak  of  dawn, 
The  red-armed  washers  come  and  chase  repose. 
Xor  pleasant  smile,  nor  quaint  device  of  mirth, 
E'er  visited  that  day :  the  very  cat, 
From  the  wet  kitchen's  scared  and  reeking  hearth, 
Visits  the  parlor,  —  an  unwonted  guest. 
The  silent  breakfast -meal  is  soon  despatched ; 
Uninterrupted,  save  by  anxious  looks 


WASHING-DAT.  93 

Cast  at  the  lowering  sky,  if  sky  should  lower. 

From  that  last  evil,  0  preserve  us,  heavens  ! 

For  should  the  skies  pour  down,  adieu  to  all 

Remains  of  quiet :  then  expect  to  hear 

Of  sad  disasters,  —  dirt  and  gravel  stains 

Hard  to  efface,  and  loaded  lines  at  once 

Snapped  short,  —  and  linen-horse  by  dog  thrown  down, 

And  all  the  petty  miseries  of  life. 

Saints  have  been  calm  while  stretched  upon  the  rack, 

And  Guatimozin  smiled  on  burning  coals ; 

But  never  yet  did  housewife  notable 

Greet  with  a  smile  a  rainy  washing-day. 

But  grant  the  welkin  fair,  require  not  thou 

Who  call'st  thyself  perchance  the  master  there, 

Or  study  swept,  or  nicely  dusted  coat, 

Or  usual  'tendance,  —  ask  not,  indiscreet, 

Thy  stockings  mended,  though  the  yawning  rents 

Gape  wide  as  Erebus  ;  nor  hope  to  find 

Some  snug  recess  impervious  :  shouldst  thou  try 

The  'customed  garden-walks,  thine  eyes  shall  rue 

The  budding  fragrance  of  thy  tender  shrubs, 

Myrtle  or  rose,  all  crushed  beneath  the  weight 

Of  coarse  checked  apron,  —  with  impatient  hand 

Twitched  off  when  showers  impend :  or  crossing  lines 

Shall  mar  thy  musings,  as  the  wet,  cold  sheet 

Flaps  in  thy  face  abrupt.     Woe  to  the  friend 

Whose  evil  stars  have  urged  him  forth  to  claim 


94  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

On  such  a  day  the  hospitable  rites ! 

Looks,  blank  at  best,  and  stinted  courtesy, 

Shall  he  receive.     Vainly  he  feeds  his  hopes 

With  dinner  of  roast  chicken*,  savory  pie, 

Or  tart,  or  pudding  :  —  pudding  he  nor  tart 

That  day  shall  eat ;  nor,  though  the  husband  try, 

Mending  what  can't  be  helped,  to  kindle  mirth 

From  cheer  deficient,  shall  his  consort's  brow 

Clear  up  propitious  :  the  unlucky  guest 

In  silence  dines,  and  early  slinks  away. 

I  well  remember,  when  a  child,  the  awe 

This  day  struck  into  me ;  for  then  the  maids, 

I  scarce  knew  why,  looked  cross,  and  drove  me  from 

them: 
!Nor  soft  caress  could  I  obtain  ;  nor  hope 
Usual  indulgences ;  jelly  or  creams, 
Eelic  of  costly  suppers,  and  set  by 
For  me  their  petted  one,  or  buttered  toast, 
When  butter  was  forbid  ;  or  thrilling  tale 
Of  ghost  or  witch  or  murder,  —  so  I  went 
And  sheltered  me  beside  the  parlor  fire : 
There  my  dear  grandmother,  eldest  of  forms, 
Tended  the  litde  ones,  and  watched  from  harm, 
Anxiously  fond,  though  oft  her  spectacles 
With  elfin  cunning  hid,  and  oft  the  pins 
Drawn  from  her  ravelled  stockings,  might  have  soured 
One  less  indulgent.  — 


TO   MR.    S.    T.    COLERIDGE.  95 

At  intervals  my  mother's  voice  was  heard, 

Urging  despatch  :  briskly  the  work  went  on, 

All  hands  employed  to  wash,  to  rinse,  to  wring, 

To  fold,  and  starch,  and  clap,  and  iron,  and  plait. 

Then  would  I  sit  me  down,  and  ponder  much 

Why  washings  were.     Sometimes  through  hollow  bowl 

Of  pipe  amused  we  blew,  and  sent  aloft 

The  floating  bubbles  ;  little  dreaming  then 

To  see,  Montgolfier,  thy  silken  ball 

Eide  buoyant  through  the  clouds,  —  so  near  approach 

The  sports  of  children  and  the  toils  of  men. 

Earth,  air,  and  sky,  and  ocean  hath  its  bubbles, 

And  verse  is  one  of  them,  —  this  most  of  alL 


TO   ME.  S.  T.  COLEELDGE. 

1797. 

MIDWAY  the  hill  of  science,  after  steep 
And  rugged  paths  that  tire  the  unpractised  feet, 
A  grove  extends  ;  in  tangled  mazes  wrought, 
And  filled  with  strange  enchantment :  —  dubious  shapes 
Flit  through  dim  glades,  and  lure  the  eager  foot 
Of  youthful  ardor  to  eternal  chase. 
Dreams  hang  on  every  leaf :  unearthly  forms 
Glide  through  the  gloom ;  and  mystic  visions  swim 


96  WORKS   OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Before  the  cheated  sense.     Athwart  the  mists, 

Far  into  vacant  space,  huge  shadows  stretch, 

And  seem  realities ;  while  things  of  life, 

Obvious  to  sight  and  touch,  all  glowing  round, 

Fade  to  the  hue  of  shadows.  —  Scruples  here, 

With  filmy  net,  most  like  the  autumnal  webs 

Of  floating  gossamer,  arrest  the  foot 

Of  generous  enterprise  ;  and  palsy  hope 

And  fair  ambition  with  the  chilling  touch 

Of  sickly  hesitation  and  blank  fear. 

Nor  seldom  Indolence  these  lawns  among 

Fixes  her  turf-built  seat ;  and  wears  the  garb 

Of  deep  pliilosophy,  and  museful  sits, 

In  dreamy  twilight  of  the  vacant  mind, 

Soothed  by  the  whispering  shade  ;  for  soothing  soft 

The  shades ;  and  vistas  lengthening  into  air, 

With  moonbeam  rainbows  tinted.     Here  each  mind 

Of  finer  mould,  acute  and  delicate, 

In  its  high  progress  to  eternal  truth 

Bests  for  a  space,  in  fairy  bowers  entranced ; 

And  loves  the  softened  light  and  tender  gloom ; 

And,  pampered  with  most  unsubstantial  food, 

Looks  down  indignant  on  the  grosser  world, 

And  matter's  cumbrous  shapings.     Youth  beloved 

Of  Science,  —  of  the  Muse  beloved,  —  not  here, 

Not  in  the  maze  of  metaphysic  lore, 

Build  thou  thy  place  of  resting  !  lightly  tread 


PEACE   AND   SHEPHERD.  97 

The  dangerous  ground,  on  noble  aims  intent ; 
And  be  this  Circe  of  the  studious  cell 
Enjoyed,  but  still  subservient.     Active  scenes 
Shall  soon  with  healthful  spirit  brace  thy  mind ; 
And  fair  exertion,  for  bright  fame  sustained ; 
For  friends,  for  country,  close  each  spleen-fed  fog 
That  blots  the  wide  creation.  — 
Now  Heaven  conduct  thee  with  a  parent's  love ! 


PEACE  AND   SHEPHERD. 

LOW  in  a  deep,  sequestered  vale, 
Whence  Alpine  heights  ascend,  ' 
A  beauteous  nymph,  in  pilgrim  garb, 
Is  seen  her  steps  to  bend. 

Her  olive  garland  drops  with  gore ; 

Her  scattered  tresses  torn, 
Her  bleeding  breast,  her  bruised  feet, 

Bespeak  a  maid  forlorn. 

"  From  bower,  and  hall,  and  palace  driven, 

To  these  lone  wilds  I  flee ; 
My  name  is  Peace,  —  I  love  the  cot ; 

0  Shepherd,  shelter  me  !  " 


98  WORKS   OF   BIBS.    BAKBAULD. 

"  0  beauteous  pilgrim,  why  dost  thou 

From  bower  and  palace  flee  ? 
So  soft  thy  voice,  so  sweet  thy  look, 

Sure  all  would  shelter  thee  !' 

"  Like  Noah's  dove,  no  rest  I  find ; 

The  din  of  battle  roars 
Where  once  my  steps  I  loved  to  print 

Along  the  myrtle  shores : 

"  Forever  in  my  frighted  ears 
The  savage  war-whoop  sounds ; 

And  like  a  panting  hare  I  fly 
Before  the  opening  hounds." 

"  Pilgrim,  those  spiry  groves  among, 
The  mansions  thou  mayst  see, 

Where  cloistered  saints  chant  holy  hymns, - 
Sure  such  would  shelter  thee  ! " 

"  Those  roofs  with  trophied  banners  stream, 
There  martial  hymns  resound  ;  — 

And,  Shephard,  oft  from  crosiered  hands 
This  breast  has  felt  a  wound." 


"  Ah  !  gentle  pilgrim,  glad  would  I 
Those  tones  forever  hear  ! 


WEST   END   FAIR.  99 

With  thee  to  share  my  scanty  lot, 
That  lot  to  me  were  dear." 

"  But  lo,  along  the  vine-clad  steep, 

The  gleam  of  armor  shines  ; 
His  scattered  flock,  his  straw-roofed  hut, 

The  helpless  swain  resigns. 

"  And  now  the  smouldering  flames  aspire ; 

Their  lurid  light  I  see  ; 
I  hear  the  human  wolves  approach, 

I  cannot  shelter  thee." 


WEST  EKD   EAIB. 

DAME  Charity  one  day  was  tired 
With  nursing  of  her  children  three, 
So  might  you  be 
If  you  had  nursed  and  nursed  so  long 
A  little  squalling  throng ;  — 
So  she,  like  any  earthly  lady, 
Eesolved  for  once  she  'd  have  a  play-day. 

"  I  cannot  always  go  about 

To  hospitals  and  prisons  trudging, 


100  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Or  fag  from  morn  to  night 
Teaching  to  spell  and  write 
A  barefoot  rout, 
Swept  from  the  streets  by  poor  Lancaster, 
My  sub-master. 

"  That  Howard  ran  me  out  of  breath, 
And  Thornton  and  a  hundred  more 

Will  be  my  death  ; 
The  air  is  sweet,  the  month  is  gay, 
"  And  I,"  said  she,  "  must  have  a  holiday." 

So  said,  she  doffed  her  robes  of  brow^n, 
In  which  she  commonly  is  seen,  — 

Like  French  Beguine, — 
And  sent  for  ornaments  to  town : 
And  Taste  in  Flavia's  form  stood  by, 
Pencilled  her  eyebrows,  curled  her  hair, 
Disposed  each  ornament  with  care, 
And  hung  her  round  with  trinkets  rare, 
She  scarcely,  looking  in  the  glass, 

Knew  her  own  face. 

So  forth  she  sallied  blithe  and  gay, 
And  met  Dame  Fashion  by  the  way ; 
And  many  a  kind  and  friendly  greeting 
Passed  on  their  meeting ; 


WEST   END   FAIR.  101 

Nor  let  the  fact  your  wonder  move, 

Abroad  and  on  a  gala-day 
Fashion  and  she  are  hand  and  glove. 

So  on  they  walked  together, 

Bright  was  the  weather ; 
Dame  Charity  was  frank  and  warm, 
But  being  rather  apt  to  tire 

She  leant  on  Fashion's  arm. 

And  now  away  for  West  End  Fair, 
Where  whiskey,  chariot,  coach,  and  chair 

Are  all  in  requisition. 

In  neat  attire  the  Graces 
Behind  the  counters  take  their  places, 

And  humbly  do  petition 
To  dress  the  booths  with  flowers  and  sweets, 

As  fine  as  any  May-day, 
Where  Charity  with  Fashion  meets, 

And  keeps  her  play-day. 


102 


WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 


DIRGE. 


WRITTEN   NOVEMBER,  1808. 


PURE  spirit !  0,  where  art  thou  now  ? 
0,  whisper  to  my  soul ! 
0,  let  some  soothing  thought  of  thee 


This  bitter  grief  control ! 


'T  is  not  for  thee  the  tears  I  shed, 

Thy  sufferings  now  are  o'er  ; 
The  sea  is  calm,  the  tempest  past, 

On  that  eternal  shore. 

No  more  the  storms  that  wrecked  thy  peace 

Shall  tear  that  gentle  breast ; 
Nor  Summer's  rage,  nor  Winter's  cold, 

Thy  poor,  poor  frame  molest. 

Thy  peace  is  sealed,  thy  rest  is  sure, 

My  sorrows  are  to  come  ; 
Awhile  I  weep  and  linger  here, 

Then  follow  to  the  tomb. 


And  is  the  awful  veil  withdrawn, 
That  shrouds  from  mortal  eyes, 


DIRGE.  103 

In  deep,  impenetrable  gloom, 
The  secrets  of  the  skies  ? 

O,  in  some  dream  of  visioned  bliss, 

Some  trance  of  rapture,  show- 
Where,  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

Thou  rest'st  from  human  woe  ! 

Hence  may  thy  pure  devotion's  flame 

On  me,  on  me  descend  ; 
To  me  thy  strong  aspiring  hopes, 

Thy  faith,  thy  fervors,  lend. 

Let  these  my  lonely  path  illume, 

And  teach  my  weakened  mind 
To  welcome  all  that 's  left  of  good, 

To  all  that  's  lost  resigned. 

Farewell !  with  honor,  peace,  and  love, 

Be  thy  dear  memory  blest ; 
Thou  hast  no  tears  for  me  to  shed 

When  I  too  am  at  rest. 


104  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BAEBAULD. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD. 

TO  learned  Athens,  led  by  fame, 
As  once  the  man  of  Tarsus  came, 
With  pity  and  surprise, 
'Midst  idol  altars  as  he  stood, 
O'er  sculptured  marble,  brass,  and  wood 
He  rolled  his  awful  eyes. 

But  one,  apart,  his  notice  caught, 

That  seemed  with  higher  meaning  fraught, 

Graved  on  the  wounded  stone ; 
Nor  form  nor  name  was  there  expressed  ; 
Deep  reverence  filled  the  musing  breast, 

Perusing,  "  To  the  God  Unknown." 

Age  after  age  has  rolled  away, 
Altars  and  thrones  have  felt  decay, 

Sages  and  saints  have  risen ; 
And,  like  a  giant  roused  from  sleep, 
Man  has  explored  the  pathless  deep, 

And  lightnings  snatched  from  heaven. 

And  many  a  shrine  in  dust  is  laid, 
Where  kneeling  nations  homage  paid, 


. 


ODE   TO   REMORSE.  105 

By  rock,  or  fount,  or  grove  : 
Ephesian  Dian  sees  no  more 
Her  workmen  fuse  the  silver  ore, 

]Nor  Capitolian  Jove. 

E'en  Salem's  hallowed  courts  have  ceased 
With  solemn  pomps  her  tribes  to  feast, 

No  more  the  victim  bleeds  ; 
To  censers  filled  with  rare  perfumes, 
And  vestments  from  Egyptian  looms,  — 

A  purer  rite  succeeds. 

Yet  still  where'er  presumptuous  man 
His  Maker's  essence  strives  to  scan, 

And  lifts  his  feeble  hands, 
Though  saint  and  sage  their  powers  unite 
To  fathom  that  abyss  of  light, 

Ah  !  still  that  altar  stands. 


ODE  TO   EE^IOESE. 

DEEAD  offspring  of  the  holy  light  within, 
Offspring  of  Conscience  and  of  Sin, 
Stern  as  thine  awful  sire,  and  fraught  with  woe 
From  bitter  springs  thy  mother  taught  to  flow,  - 


106  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Eemorse  !     To  man  alone  't  is  given 
Of  all  on  earth,  or  all  in  heaven, 
To  wretched  man  thy  bitter  cup  to  drain, 
Feel  thy  awakening  stings,  and  taste  thy  wholesome  pain. 

'Midst  Eden's  blissful  bowers, 

And  amaranthine  flowers, 
Thy  birth  portentous  dimmed  the  orient  day, 

What  time  our  hapless  sire, 

O'ercome  by  fond  desire, 
The  high  command  presumed  to  disobey ; 
Then  didst  thou  rear  thy  snaky  crest, 
And  raise  thy  scorpion  lash  to  tear  the  guilty  breast : 

And  never,  since  that  fatal  hour, 
May  man,  of  woman  born,  expect  to  escape  thy  power. 

Thy  goading  stings  the  branded  Cain 
'Cross  the  untrodden  desert  drove, 
Ere  from  his  cradling  home  and  native  plain 
Domestic  man  had  learnt  to  rove. 
By  gloomy  shade  or  lonely  flood 
Of  vast  primeval  solitude, 
Thy  step  his  hurried  steps  pursued, 
Thy  voice  awoke  his  conscious  fears, 
Forever  sounding  in  his  ears 
A  father's  curse,  a  brother's  blood ; 
Till  life  was  misery  too  great  to  bear, 
And  torturing  thought  was  lost  in  sullen,  dumb  despair. 


ODE   TO   REMORSE.  107 

The  king  who  sat  on  Judah's  throne, 
By  guilty  love  to  murder  wrought, 
Was  taught  thy  searching  power  to  own, 

When,  sent  of  Heaven,  the  seer  his  royal  presence  sought. 
As,  wrapt  in  artful  phrase,  with  sorrow  feigned 
He  told  of  helpless,  meek  distress, 
And  wrongs  that  sought  from  power  redress, 
The  pity-moving  tale  his  ear  obtained, 
And  bade  his  better  feelings  wake ; 
Then,  sudden  as  the  trodden  snake 
On  the  scared  traveller  darts  his  fangs, 

The  prophet's  bold  rebuke  aroused  thy  keenest  pangs. 

And  0  that  look,  that  soft,  upbraiding  look ! 
A  thousand  cutting,  tender  things  it  spoke,  — 
The  sword  so  lately  drawn  was  not  so  keen,  — 
Which,  as  the  injured  Master  turned  him  round 

In  the  strange,  solemn  scene, 
And  the  shrill  clarion  gave  the  appointed  sound, 

Pierced  sudden  through  the  reins 

Awakening  all  thy  pains, 

And  drew  a  silent  shower  of  bitter  tears 
Down  Peter's  blushing  cheek,  late  pale  with  coward  fears. 

Cruel  Remorse  !  where  Youth  and  Pleasure  sport, 
And  thoughtless  Folly  keeps  her  court,  — 

Crouching  'midst  rosy  bowers  thou  lurk'st  unseen ; 
Slumbering  the  festal  hours  away, 


108  WOBKS    or   MBS.   BABBAULD. 

While  Youth  disports  in  that  enchanting  scene ; 

Till  on  some  fated  day 
Thou  with  a  tiger-spring  dost  leap  upon  thy  prey, 
And  tear  his  helpless  breast,  o'erwhelmed  with  wild 

dismay. 

Mark  that  poor  wretch  with  clasped  hands  ! 
Pale  o'er  his  parents'  grave  he  stands,  — 
The  grave  by  his  ingratitude  prepared  ; 
Ah,  then,  where'er  he  rests  his  head, 
On  roses  pillowed  or  the  softest  down, 
Though  festal  wreaths  his  temples  crown, 
He  well  might  envy  Guatimozin's  bed, 
With  burning  coals  and  sulphur  spread, 
And  with  less  agony  his  torturing  hour  have  shared 

For  Thou  art  by  to  point  the  keen  reproach  ; 
Thou  draw'st  the  curtains  of  his  nightly  couch, 
Bring'st  back  the  reverend  face  with  tears  bedewed, 

That  o'er  his  follies  yearned  ; 

The  warnings  oft  in  vain  renewed, 

The  looks  of  anguish  and  of  love, 

His  stubborn  breast  that  failed  to  move, 
AYhen  in   the  scorner's  chair  he  sat,  and  wholesome 
counsel  spurned. 

Lives  there  a  man  whose  laboring  breast 
Is  with  some  dark  and  guilty  secret  prest, 


ODE  TO   REMOESE.  109 

Who  hides  within  its  inmost  fold 
Strange  crimes  to  mortal  ear  untold  ? 
In  vain  to  sad  Chartreuse  he  flies, 
'Midst  savage  rocks  and  cloisters  dim  and  drear, 
And  there  to  shun  thee  tries  : 
In  vain  untold  his  crime  to  mortal  ear, 
Silence  and  whispered  sounds  but  make  thy  voice  more 
clear. 

Lo  where  the  cowled  monk  with  frantic  rage 

Lifts  high  the  sounding  scourge,  his  bleeding  shoulders 

smites ! 
Penance  and  fasts  his  anxious  thoughts  engage, 
Weary  his  days  and  joyless  are  his  nights, 
His  naked  feet  the  flinty  pavement  tears, 
His  knee  at  every  shrine  the  marble  wears ;  — 

Why  does  he  lift  the  cruel  scourge  ? 

The  restless  pilgrimage  why  urge  ? 

'T  is  all  to  quell  thy  fiercer  rage, 

'T  is  all  to  soothe  thy  deep  despair, 
He  courts  the  body's  pangs,  for  thine  he  cannot  bear. 

See,  o'er  the  bleeding  corse  of  her  he  loved 

The  jealous  murderer  bends  unmoved, 
Trembling  with  rage,  his  livid  lips  express 
His  frantic  passion's  wild  and  rash  excess. 
0  God,  she 's  innocent !  transfixt  he  stands, 


110  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Pierced  through  with  shafts  from  thine  avenging  hands; 

Down  his  pale  cheek  no  tear  will  flow, 
Xor  can  he  shun,  nor  can  he  bear,  his  woe. 

'T  was  phantoms  summoned  by  thy  power, 
Bound  Eichard's  couch  at  midnight  hour, 
That  scared  the  tyrant  from  unblest  repose ; 
"With  frantic  haste,  "  To  horse  !  to  horse  ! "  he  cries, 
"While  on  his  crowned  brow  cold  sweat-drops  rise, 

And  fancied  spears  his  spear  oppose  ; 
But  not  the  swiftest  steed  can  bear  away 
From  thy  firm  grasp  thine  agonizing  prey. 

Thou  wast  the  fiend,  and  thou  alone, 

That  stood'st  by  Beaufort's  mitred  head, 
With  upright  hair  and  visage  ghastly  pale : 

Thy  terrors  shook  his  dying  bed, 
Past  crimes  and  blood  his  sinking  heart  assail, 
His  hands  are  clasped,  —  hark  to  that  hollow  groan  ! 
See  how  his  glazed,  dim  eyeballs  wildly  roll, 
'T  is  not  dissolving  nature's  pains ;  that  pang  is  of  the 
soul. 

Where  guilty  souls  are  doomed  to  dwell, 
'T  is  thou  that  mak'st  their  fiercest  hell, 
The  vulture  thou  that  on  their  liver  feeds, 
As  rise  to  view  their  past  unhallowed  deeds : 


ODE   TO   REMORSE.  Ill 

With  thee  condemned  to  stay 
Till  time  has  rolled  away 
Long  aeras  of  uncounted  }^ears, 
And  every  stain  is  washed  in  soft,  repentant  tears. 

Servant  of  God,  —  but  unbeloved,  —  proceed, 
For  thou  must  live  and  ply  thy  scorpion-scourge ; 

Thy  sharp  upbraidings  urge 

Against  the  unrighteous  deed, 
Till  thine  accursed  mother  shall  expire, 
And  a  new  world  spring  forth  from  renovating  fire. 

0  !  when  the  glare  of  day  is  fled, 

And  calm,  beneath  the  evening- star, 

Reflection  leans  her  pensive  head, 
And  calls  the  passions  to  her  solemn  bar ; 
Reviews  the  censure  rash,  the  hasty  word, 

The  purposed  act  too  long  deferred, 

Of  time  the  wasted  treasures  lent, 
And  fair  occasions  lost  and  golden  hours  misspent ; 

When  anxious  Memory  numbers  o'er 
Each  offered  prize  we  failed  to  seize ; 
Or  friends  laid  low,  whom  now  no  more 
Our  fondest  love  can  serve  or  please, 
And  thou,  dread  power,  bring'st  back  in  terror  drest 
The  irrevocable  past,  to  sting  the  careless  breast ;  — 


112  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

0  !  in  that  hour  be  mine*  to  know, 
While  fast  the  silent  sorrows  flow, 
And  wisdom  cherishes  the  wholesome  pain, 
No  heavier  guilt,  no  deeper  stain, 
Than  tears  of  meek  contrition  may  atone, 
Shed  at  the  mercy-seat  of  Heaven's  eternal  throne. 


ETEEXITY. 

....  The  year  has  run 
Its  round  of  seasons,  has  fulfilled  its  course, 
Absolved  its  destined  period,  and  is  borne, 
Silent  and  swift,  to  that  devouring  gulf, 
Their  womb  the  grave,  where  seasons,  months,  and  years, 
Eevolving  periods  of  uncounted  time, 
All  merge  and  are  forgotten.  —  Thou  alone, 
In  thy  deep  bosom  burying  all  the  past, 
Still  art ;  and  still  from  thine  exhaustless  store 
Xew  periods  spring,  Eternity.  —  Thy  name, 
Or  glad,  or  fearful,  we  pronounce,  as  thoughts 
"Wandering  in  darkness  shape  thee.     Thou  strange  being, 
Which  art  and  must  be,  yet  which  contradict'st 
All  sense,  all  reasoning,  —  thou  who  never  wast 
Less  than  thyself,  and  who  art  still  thyself 
Entire,  though  the  deep  draught  which  Time  has  taken 


EIGHTEEN   HUNDRED   AND   ELEVEN.  113 

Equals  thy  present  store.  —  No  line  can  reach 
To  thy  unfathonied  depths.     The  reasoning  sage 
Who  can  dissect  a  sunbeam,  count  the  stars, 
And  measure  distant  worlds,  is  here  a  child, 
And,  humbled,  drops  his  calculating  pen. 
And  wrecks  of  empire  and  of  world  are  borne 
Like  atoms  on  its  bosom.     Still  tJwu  art, 
And  he  who  does  inhabit  thee. 


EIGHTEEN"  HUNDRED   AND   ELEVEN. 

STILL  the  loud  death-drum,  thundering  from  afar, 
O'er  the  vext  nations  pours  the  storm  of  war : 
To  the  stern  call  still  Britain  leads  her  ear, 
Feeds  the  fierce  strife,  the  alternate  hope  and  fear ; 
Bravely,  though  vainly,  dares  to  strive  with  Fate, 
And  seeks  by  turns  to  prop  each  sinking  state. 
Colossal  power  with  overwhelming  force 
Bears  down  each  foot  of  Freedom  in  its  course ; 
Prostrate  she  lies  beneath  the  despot's  sway, 
While  the  hushed  nations  curse  him  —  and  obey. 

Bounteous  in  vain,  with  frantic  man  at  strife, 
Glad  Nature  pours  the  means  —  the  joys  of  life ; 


114  WORKS   OF  MBS.    BAKBAULD. 

In  vain  with  orange-blossoms  scents  the  gale, 

The  hills  with  olives  clothes,  with  corn  the  vale ; 

Man  calls  to  Famine,  nor  invokes  in  vain, 

Disease  and  Eapine  follow  in  her  train ; 

The  tramp  of  marching  hosts  disturbs  the  plough, 

The  sword,  not  sickle,  reaps  the  harvest  now, 

And  where  the  soldier  gleans  the  scant  supply, 

The  helpless  peasant  but  retires  to  die ; 

No  laws  his  hut  from  licensed  outrage  shield, 

And  war's  least  horror  is  the  ensanguined  field. 

Fruitful  in  vain,  the  matron  counts  with  pride 

The  blooming  youths  that  grace  her  honored  side ; 

Xo  son  returns  to  press  her  widowed  hand, 

Her  fallen  blossoms  strew  a  foreign  strand. 

—  Fruitful  in  vain,  she  boasts  her  virgin  race, 

"Whom  cultured  arts  adorn  and  gentlest  grace ; 

Defrauded  of  its  homage,  Beauty  mourns 

And  the  rose  withers  on  its  virgin  thorns. 

Frequent,  some  stream  obscure,  some  uncouth  name, 

By  deeds  of  blood  is  lifted  into  fame ; 

Oft  o'er  the  daily  page  some  soft  one  bends 

To  learn  the  fate  of  husband,  brothers,  friends, 

Or  the  spread  map  with  anxious  eye  explores, 

Its  dotted  boundaries  and  pencilled  shores, 

Asks  where  the  spot  that  wrecked  her  bliss  is  found, 

And  learns  its  name  but  to  detest  the  sound. 


EIGHTEEN   HUNDRED   AND   ELEVEN.  115 

And  think'st  thou,  Britain,  still  to  sit  at  ease, 

An  island  queen  amidst  thy  subject  seas, 

"While  the  vext  billows,  in  their  distant  roar, 

But  soothe  thy  slumbers,  and  but  kiss  thy  shore  ? 

To  sport  in  wars,  while  danger  keeps  aloof, 

Thy  grassy  turf  unbruised  by  hostile  hoof  ? 

So  sing  thy  flatterers  ;  —  but,  Britain,  know, 

Thou  who  hast  shared  the  guilt  must  share  the  woe. 

Nor  distant  is  the  hour ;  low  murmurs  spread, 

And  whispered  fears,  creating  what  they  dread ; 

Euin,  as  with  an  earthquake  shock,  is  here, 

There,  the  heart- witherings  of  unuttered  fear, 

And  that  sad  death,  whence  most  affection  bleeds, 

Which  sickness,  only  of  the  soul,  precedes. 

Thy  baseless  wealth  dissolves  in  air  away, 

Like  mists  that  melt  before  the  morning  ray : 

No  more  on  crowded  mart  or  busy  street 

Friends,  meeting  friends,  with  cheerful  hurry  greet ; 

Sad,  on  the  ground  thy  princely  merchants  bend 

Their  altered  looks,  and  evil  days  portend, 

And  fold  their  arms,  and  watch  with  anxious  breast 

The  tempest  blackening  in  the  distant  W^est. 

Yes,  thou  must  droop ;  thy  Midas  dream  is  o'er ; 
The  golden  tide  of  Commerce  leaves  thy  shore, 
Leaves  thee  to  prove  the  alternate  ills  that  haunt 
Enfeebling  Luxury  and  ghastly  Want ; 


116  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Leaves  thee,  perhaps,  to  visit  distant  lands, 
And  deal  the  gifts  of  Heaven  with  equal  hands. 

Yet,  0  my  Country,  name  beloved,  revered, 

By  every  tie  that  binds  the  soul  endeared, 

Whose  image  to  my  infant  senses  came 

Mixt  with  Eeligion's  light  and  Freedom's  holy  flame ! 

If  prayers  may  not  avert,  if  't  is  thy  fate 

To  rank  amongst  the  names  that  once  were  great, 

Not  like  the  dim,  cold  Crescent  shalt  thou  fade, 

Thy  debt  to  Science  and  the  Muse  unpaid ; 

Thine  are  the  laws  surrounding  states  revere, 

Thine  the  full  harvest  of  the  mental  year, 

Thine  the  bright  stars  in  Glory's  sky  that  shine, 

And  arts  that  make  it  life  to  live  are  thine. 

If  westward  streams  the  light  that  leaves  thy  shores, 

Still  from  thy  lamp  the  streaming  radiance  pours. 

Wide  spreads  thy  race  from  Ganges  to  the  pole, 

O'er  half  the  Western  world  thy  accents  roll  : 

Nations  beyond  the  Apalachian  hills 

Thy  hand  has  planted  and  thy  spirit  fills : 

Soon  as  their  gradual  progress  shall  impart 

The  finer  sense  of  morals  and  of  art, 

Thy  stores  of  knowledge  the  new  states  shall  know, 

And  think  thy  thoughts,  and  with  thy  fancy  glow ; 

Thy  Lockes,  thy  Paleys,  shall  instruct  their  youth, 

Thy  leading  star  direct  their  search  for  truth ; 


EIGHTEEN   HUNDRED   AND   ELEVEN.  117 

Beneath  the  spreading  platane's  tent-like  shade, 

Or  by  Missouri's  rushing  waters  laid, 

"  Old  Father  Thames  "  shall  be  the  poet's  theme, 

Of  Hagley's  woods  the  enamored  virgin  dream, 

And  Milton's  tones  the  raptured  ear  enthrall, 

Mixt  with  the  roaring  of  Niagara's  fall ; 

In  Thomson's  glass  the  ingenuous  youth  shall  learn 

A  fairer  face  of  Nature  to  discern ; 

Nor  of  the  bards  that  swept  the  British  lyre 

Shall  fade  one  laurel,  or  one  note  expire. 

Then,  loved  Joanna,  to  admiring  eyes 

Thy  storied  groups  in  scenic  pomp  shall  rise ; 

Their  high-souled  strains  and  Shakespeare's  noble  rage 

Shall  with  alternate  passion  shake  the  stage. 

Some  youthful  Basil  from  thy  moral  lay 

With  stricter  hand  his  fond  desires  shall  sway ; 

Some  Ethwald,  as  the  fleeting  shadows  pass, 

Start  at  his  likeness  in  the  mystic  glass ; 

The  tragic  Muse  resume  her  just  control, 

With  pity  and  with  terror  purge  the  soul, 

While  wide  o'er  transatlantic  realms  thy  name 

Shall  live  in  light  and  gather  all  its  fame. 

Where  wanders  Fancy  down  the  lapse  of  years, 
Shedding  o'er  imaged  woes  untimely  tears  ? 
Fond,  moody  power !  as  hopes  —  as  fears  prevail, 
She  longs,  or  dreads,  to  lift  the  awful  veil, 


L 


118  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

On  visions  of  delight  now  loves  to  dwell, 
Now  hears  the  shriek  of  woe  or  Freedom's  knell : 
Perhaps,  she  says,  long  ages  past  away, 
And  set  in  western  wave  our  closing  day, 
Night,  Gothic  night,  again  may  shade  the  plains 
Where  Power  is  seated,  and  where  Science  reigns ; 
England,  the  seat  of  arts,  be  only  known 
By  the  gray  ruin  and  the  mouldering  stone ; 
That  Time  may  tear  the  garland  from  her  brow, 
And  Europe  sit  in  dust,  as  Asia  now. 

Yet  then  the  ingenuous  youth  whom  Fancy  fires 

With  pictured  glories  of  illustrious  sires, 

With  duteous  zeal  their  pilgrimage  shall  take 

From  the  Blue  Mountains,  or  Ontario's  lake, 

"With  fond,  adoring  steps  to  press  the  sod 

By  statesmen,  sages,  poets,  heroes,  trod ; 

On  Isis'  banks  to  draw  inspiring  air, 

From  Eunnymede  to  send  the  patriot's  prayer ; 

In  pensive  thought,  where  Cam's  slow  waters  wind, 

To  meet  those  shades  that  ruled  the  realms  of  mind ; 

In  silent  halls  to  sculptured  marbles  bow, 

And  hang  fresh  wreaths  round  Newton's  awful  brow. 

Oft  shall  they  seek  some  peasant's  homely  shed, 

Who  toils,  unconscious  of  the  mighty  dead, 

To  ask  where  Avon's  winding  wraters  stray, 

And  thence  a  knot  of  wild  flowers  bear  away ; 


EIGHTEEN   HUNDRED   AND   ELEVEN.  119 

Anxious  inquire  where  Clarkson,  friend  of  man, 

Or  all-accomplished  Jones  his  race  began ; 

If  of  the  modest  mansion  aught  remains 

Where  Heaven  and  Nature  prompted  Cowper's  strains ; 

"Where  Koscoe,  to  whose  patriot  breast  belong 

The  Eoman  virtue  and  the  Tuscan  song, 

Led  Ceres  to  the  black  and  barren  moor 

Where  Ceres  never  gained  a  wreath  before  :  * 

With  curious  search  their  pilgrim  steps  shall  rove 

By  many  a  ruined  tower  and  proud  alcove, 

Shall  listen  for  those  strains  that  soothed  of  yore 

Thy  rock,  stern  Skiddaw,  and  thy  fall,  Lodore  ; 

Feast  with  Dun  Edin's  classic  brow  their  sight, 

And  "visit  Melross  by  the  pale  moonlight." 

But  who  their  mingled  feelings  shall  pursue 

When  London's  faded  glories  rise  to  view  ? 

The  mighty  city,  which  by  every  road, 

In  floods  of  people  poured  itself  abroad 

Ungirt  by  Walls,  irregularly  great, 

No  jealous  drawbridge,  and  no  closing  gate  ; 

Whose  merchants  (such  the  state  which  commerce  brings) 

Sent  forth  their  mandates  to  dependent  kings ; 

Streets,  where  the  turbaned  Moslem,  bearded  Jew, 

And  woolly  Afric,  met  the  brown  Hindu ; 

*  The  historian,  of  the  age  of  Leo  brought  into  cultivation  the  ex- 
tensive tract  of  Chatmoss.  —  Ed. 


120  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Where  through  each  vein  spontaneous  plenty  flowed, 
Where  Wealth  enjoyed,  and  Charity  bestowed. 
Pensive  and  thoughtful  shall  the  wanderers  greet 
Each  splendid  square,  and  still,  untrodden  street ; 
Or  of  some  crumbling  turret,  mined  by  time, 
The  broken  stairs  with  perilous  step  shall  climb, 
Thence  stretch  their  view  the  wide  horizon  round, 
By  scattered  hamlets  trace  its  ancient  bound, 
And,  choked  no  more  with  fleets,  fair  Thames  survey 
Through  reeds  and  sedge  pursue  his  idle  way. 

With  throbbing  bosoms  shall  the  wanderers  tread 
The  hallowed  mansions  of  the  silent  dead. 
Shall  enter  the  long  aisle  and  vaulted  dome 
Where  Genius  and  where  Valor  find  a  home  ; 
Awe-struck  'midst  chill  sepulchral  marbles  breathe, 
Where  all  above  is  still,  as  all  beneath  ; 
Bend  at  each  antique  shrine,  and  frequent  turn 
To  clasp  with  fond  delight  some  sculptured  urn, 
The  ponderous  mass  of  Johnson's  form  to  greet, 
Or  breathe  the  prayer  at  Howard's  sainted  feet. 

Perhaps  some  Briton,  in  whose  musing  mind 
Those  ages  live  which  Time  has  cast  behind, 
To  every  spot  shall  lead  his  wondering  guests 
On  whose  known  site  the  beam  of  glory  rests ; 
Here  Chatham's  eloquence  in  thunder  broke, 


EIGHTEEN   HUNDRED   AND   ELEVEN.  121 

Here  Fox  persuaded,  or  here  Garrick  spoke  ; 

Shall  boast  how  Nelson,  fame  and  death  in  view, 

To  wonted  victory  led  his  ardent  crew, 

In  England's  name  enforced,  with  loftiest  tone,* 

Their  duty,  — -  and  too  well  fulfilled  his  own  : 

How  gallant  Moore,-(-  as  ebbing  life  dissolved, 

But  hoped  his  country  had  his  fame  absolved. 

Or  call  up  sages  whose  capacious  mind 

Left  in  its  course  a  track  of  light  behind  ; 

Point  where  mute  crowds  on  Davy's  lips  reposed, 

And  Nature's  coyest  secrets  were  disclosed ; 

Join  with  their  Franklin,  Priestley's  injured  name, 

"Whom,  then,  each  continent  shall  proudly  claim. 

Oft  shall  the  strangers  turn  their  eager  feet 
The  rich  remains  of  ancient  art  to  greet, 
The  pictured  walls  with  critic  eye  explore, 
And  Eeynolds  be  what  Eaphael  was  before. 
On  spoils  from  every  clime  their  eyes  shall  gaze, 
Egyptian  granites  and  the  Etruscan  vase  ; 
And  when  'midst  fallen  London  they  survey 
The  stone  where  Alexander's  ashes  lay, 
Shall  own  with  humbled  pride  the  lesson  just 

*  Every  reader  will  recollect  the  sublime  telegraphic  despatch, 
"  England  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty." 

t  "  I  hope  England  will  be  satisfied,"  were  the  last  words  of  General 
Moore.  —  Ed. 

VOL.    II.  6 


122  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

By  Time's  slow  finger  written  in  the  dust. 
There  walks  a  Spirit  o'er  the  peopled  earth, 
Secret  his  progress  is,  unknown  his  birth ; 
Moody  and  viewless  as  the  changing  wind, 
No  force  arrests  his  foot,  no  chains  can  bind ; 
Where'er  he  turns,  the  human  brute  awakes, 
And,  roused  to  better  life,  his  sordid  hut  forsakes : 
He  thinks,  he  reasons,  glows  with  purer  fires, 
Feels  finer  wants,  and  burns  with  new  desires : 
Obedient  Nature  follows  where  he  leads ; 
The  steaming  marsh  is  changed  to  fruitful  meads ; 
The  beasts  retire  from  man's  asserted  reign, 
And  prove  his  kingdom  was  not  given  in  vain. 
Then  from  its  bed  is  drawn  the  ponderous  ore, 
Then  Commerce  pours  her  gifts  on  every  shore, 
Then  Babel's  towers  and  terraced  gardens  rise, 
And  pointed  obelisks  invade  the  skies ; 
The  prince  commands,  in  Tyrian  purple  drest, 
And  Egypt's  virgins  weave  the  linen  vest. 
Then  spans  the  graceful  arch  the  roaring  tide, 
And  stricter  bounds  the  cultured  fields  divide. 
Then  kindles  Fancy,  then  expands  the  heart, 
Then  blow  the  flowers  of  Genius  and  of  Art ; 
Saints,  heroes,  sages,  who  the  land  adorn, 
Seems  rather  to  descend  than  to  be  born ; 
While  History,  'midst  the  rolls  consigned  to  fame, 
With  pen  of  adamant  inscribes  their  name. 


EIGHTEEN   HUNDRED   AND  ELEVEN.  123 

The  Genius  now  forsakes  the  favored  shore, 

And  hates,  capricious,  what  he  loved  before ; 

Then  empires  fall  to  dust,  then  arts  decay, 

And  wasted  realms  enfeebled  despots  sway  ; 

Even  Nature 's  changed ;  without  his  fostering  smile 

Ophir  no  gold,  no  plenty  yields  the  Nile ; 

The  thirsty  sand  absorbs  the  useless  rill, 

And  spotted  plagues  from  putrid  fens  distil. 

In  desert  solitudes  then  Tadmor  sleeps, 

Stern  Marius  then  o'er  fallen  Carthage  weeps ; 

Then  with  enthusiast  love  the  pilgrim  roves 

To  seek  his  footsteps  in  forsaken  groves, 

Explores  the  fractured  arch,  the  ruined  tower, 

Those  limbs  disjointed  of  gigantic  power ; 

Still  at  each  step  he  dreads  the  adder's  sting, 

The  Arab's  javelin,  or  the  tiger's  spring ; 

With  doubtful  caution  treads  the  echoing  ground, 

And  asks  where  Troy  or  Babylon  is  found. 

And  now  the  vagrant  Power  no  more  detains 
The  vale  of  Tempe  or  Ausonian  plains ; 
Northward  he  throws  the  animating  ray, 
O'er  Celtic  nations  bursts  the  mental  day ; 
And,  as  some  playful  child  the  mirror  turns, 
N'ow  here,  now  there,  the  moving  lustre  burns ; 
^ow  o'er  his  changeful  fancy  more  prevail 
'atavia's  dykes  than  Arno's  purple  vale ; 


124  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BABBAULD. 

And  stinted  suns,  and  rivers  bound  with  frost, 
Than  Enna's  plains  or  Baia's  viny  coast ; 
Venice  the  Adriatic  weds  in  vain, 
And  Death  sits  brooding  o'er  Campania's  plain  ; 
O'er  Baltic  shores  and  through  Hercynian  groves, 
Stirring  the  soul,  the  mighty  impulse  moves  ; 
Art  plies  his  tools,  and  Commerce  spreads  her  sail, 
And  wealth  is  wafted  in  each  shifting  gale. 
The  sons  of  Odin  tread  on  Persian  looms, 
And  Odin's  daughters  breathe  distilled  perfumes ; 
Loud  minstrel  bards,  in  Gothic  halls,  rehearse 
The  Bunic  rhyme,  and  "  build  the  lofty  verse  "  : 
The  Muse,  whose  liquid  notes  were  wont  to  swell 
To  the  soft  breathings  of  the  iEolian  shell, 
Submits,  reluctant,  to  the  harsher  tone, 
And  scarce  believes  the  altered  voice  her  own. 
And  now,  where  Caesar  saw  with  proud  disdain 
The  wattled  hut  and  skin  of  azure  stain, 
Corinthian  columns  rear  their  graceful  forms, 
And  light  verandas  brave  the  wintry  storms, 
While  British  tongues  the  fading  fame  prolong 
Of  Tully's  eloquence  and  Maro's  song. 
"\Vhere  once  Bonduca  whirled  the  scythed  car, 
And  the  fierce  matrons  raised  the  shriek  of  war, 
Light  forms  beneath  transparent  muslins  float, 
And  tutored  voices  swell  the  artful  note. 
Light-leaved  acacias  and  the  shady  plane 


EIGHTEEN   HUNDRED   AND   ELEVEN.  125 

And  spreading  cedar  grace  the  woodland  reign  ; 
While  crystal  walls  the  tenderer  plants  confine, 
The  fragrant  orange  and  the  nectared  pine ; 
The  Syrian  grape  there  hangs  her  rich  festoons, 
Nor  asks  for  purer  air  or  brighter  noons  : 
Science  and  Art  urge  on  the  useful  toil, 
New  mould  a  climate  and  create  the  soil, 
Subdue  the  rigor  of  the  Northern  Bear, 
O'er  polar  climes  shed  aromatic  air, 
On  yielding  Nature  urge  their  new  demands, 
And  ask  not  gifts,  but  tribute,  at  her  hands. 

London  exults  :  —  on  London  Art  bestows 
Her  summer  ices  and  her  winter  rose ; 
Gems  of  the  East  her  mural  crown  adorn, 
And  Plenty  at  her  feet  pours  forth  her  horn. 
While  even  the  exiles  her  just  laws  disclaim, 
People  a  continent,  and  build  a  name : 
August  she  sits,  and  with  extended  hands 
Holds  forth  the  book  of  life  to  distant  lands. 

But  fairest  flowers  expand  but  to  decay ;  „ 
The  worm  is  in  thy  core,  thy  glories  pass  away ; 
Arts,  arms,  and  wealth  destroy  the  fruits  they  bring ; 
Commerce,  like  beauty,  knows  no  second  spring. 
Crime  walks  thy  streets,  Fraud  earns  her  unblest  bread, 
O'er  want  and  woe  thy  gorgeous  robe  is  spread, 


126  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

And  angel  charities  in  vain  oppose  : 

With  grandeur's  growth  the  mass  of  misery  grows. 

For,  see,  —  to  other  climes  the  Genius  soars, 

He  turns  from  Europe's  desolated  shores ; 

And  lo !  even  now,  'midst  mountains  wrapt  in  storm, 

On  Andes'  heights  he  shrouds  his  awful  form  ; 

On  Chimborazo's  summits  treads  sublime, 

Measuring  in  lofty  thought  the  march  of  Time ; 

Sudden  he  calls  :  "  'T  is  now  the  hour  !  "  he  cries, 

Spreads  his  broad  hand,  and  bids  the  nation  rise. 

La  Plata  hears  amidst  her  torrents'  roar ; 

Potosi  hears  it,  as  she  digs  the  ore : 

Ardent,  the  Genius  fans  the  noble  strife, 

And  pours  through  feeble  souls  a  higher  life, 

Shouts  to  the  mingled  tribes  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  swears  —  Thy  world,  Columbus,  shall  be  free. 


LIFE. 

"Animula,  vagula,  blandula." 

LIFE !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 
But  this  I  know,  when  thou  art  fled, 


LIFE.  127 

Where'er  they  lay  these  limbs,  this  head, 
No  clod  so  valueless  shall  be, 
As  all  that  then  remains  of  me. 
0  whither,  whither  dost  thou  fly, 
Where  bend  unseen  thy  trackless  course, 
And  in  this  strange  divorce, 
Ah,  tell  where  I  must  seek  this  compound  I  ? 

To  the  vast  ocean  of  empyreal  flame, 
From  whence  thy  essence  came, 
Dost  thou  thy  flight  pursue,  when  freed 
From  matter's  base  encumbering  weed  ? 
Or  dost  thou,  hid  from  sight, 
Wait,  like  some  spell-bound  knight, 

Through  blank,  oblivious  years  the  appointed  hours 

To  break  thy  trance  and  reassume  thy  power  ? 

Yet  canst  thou,  without  thought  or  feeling  be  ? 

0  say  what  art  thou,  when  no  more  thou  'rt  thee  ? 

Life  !  we  've  been  lon<?  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather ; 
'T  is  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear,  — 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear ; 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 
Choose  thine  own  time  ; 
Say  not  Good  Night,  —  but  in  some  brighter  clime 
Bid  me  Good  Morning. 


128  WORKS    OF   MRS.   BARB.VULD. 

ON   THE  KING'S   ILLNESS. 

1811. 

REST,  rest,  afflicted  spirit,  quickly  pass 
Thine  hour  of  bitter  suffering  !     Rest  awaits  thee, 
There,  where,  the  load  of  weary  life  laid  down, 
The  peasant  and  the  king  repose  together : 
There  peaceful  sleep,  thy  quiet  grave  bedewed 
With  tears  of  those  who  loved  thee.     Not  for  thee,    . 
In  the  dark  chambers  of  the  nether  world, 
Shall  spectre  kings  rise  from  their  burning  thrones 
And  point  the  vacant  seat,  and  scoffing  say, 
Art  thou  become  like  us  ?  —  0  not  for  thee  ! 
For  thou  hadst  human  feelings,  and  hast  lived 
A  man  with  men ;  and  kindly  charities, 
Even  such  as  warm  the  cottage  hearth,  were  thine. 
And  therefore  falls  the  tear  from  eyes  not  used 
To  gaze  on  kings  with  admiration  fond. 
And  thou  hast  knelt  at  meek  Eeligion's  shrine 
With  no  mock  homage,  and  hast  owned  her  rights 
Sacred  in  every  breast ;  and  therefore  rise, 
Affectionate,  for  thee,  the  orisons 

And  mingled  prayers,  alike  from  vaulted  domes 

« 

Whence  the  loud  organ  peals,  and  raftered  roofs 
Of  humbler  worship.  —  Still  remembering  this, 


ON   THE   KING'S   ILLNESS.  129 

A  nation's  pity  and  a  nation's  love 

Linger  beside  thy  couch,  in  this  the  day 

Of  thy  sad  visitation,  veiling  faults 

Of  erring  judgment,  and  not  will  perverse. 

Yet,  0  that  thou  hadst  closed  the  wounds  of  war ! 

That  had  been  praise  to  suit  a  higher  strain. 

Farewell  the  years  rolled  down  the  gulf  of  time  ! 
Thy  name  has  chronicled  a  long,  bright  page 
Of  England's  story ;  and  perhaps  the  babe 
Who  opens,  as  thou  closest  thine,  his  eyes 
On  this  eventful  world,  when  aged  grown, 
Musing  on  times  gone  by,  shall  sigh,  and  say, 
Shaking  his  thin  gray  hairs,  whitened  with  grief, 
Our  father's  days  were  happy.     Fare  thee  well ! 
My  thread  of  life  has  even  run  with  thine 
For  many  a  lustre ;  and  thy  closing  day 
I  contemplate,  not  mindless  of  my  own, 
Nor  to  its  call  reluctant. 


6* 


130  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

A   THOUGHT   OX   DEATH: 

NOVEMBER,  1814. 

WHEN  life  as  opening  buds  is  sweet, 
And  golden  hopes  the  fancy  greet, 
And  Youth  prepares  his  joys  to  meet/ — 
Alas,  how  hard  it  is  to  die ! 

When  just  is  seized  some  valued  prize, 
And  duties  press,  and  tender  ties 
Forbid  the  soul  from  earth  to  rise,  — 
How  awful  then  it  is  to  die ! 

When,  one  by  one,  those  ties  are  torn, 
And  friend  from  friend  is  snatched  forlorn, 
And  man  is  left  alone  to  mourn,  — 
Ah,  then  how  easy  't  is  to  die  ! 

When  faith  is  firm  and  conscience  clear, 
And  words  of  peace  the  spirit  cheer, 
And  visioned  glories  half  appear,  — 
'T  is  joy,  't  is  triumph,  then,  to  die. 

When  trembling  limbs  refuse  their  weight, 
And  films,  slow  gathering,  dim  the  sight, 
And  clouds  obscure  the  mental  light,  — 
'T  is  nature's  precious  boon  to  die. 


STANZAS.  131 

STANZAS ; 

IN  THE   MANNER   OF  SPENSER. 

SO  long  estranged  from  every  Muse's  lyre, 
And  grovelling  in  the  tangled  net  of  Care  ; 
What  powerful  breath  shall  kindle  up  that  fire 
Smothered  with  damps  of  most  unkindly  air  ? 
Ah,  how  is  quenched  the  lamp  that  burnt  so  fair  ! 
Come,  sweet  seducers,  late  too  far  away, 
Once  more  to  my  deserted  cell  repair, 
Your  rebel  courts  again  your  gentle  sway ;  — 
Come,  soothe  the  winter's  night,  and  charm  the  sum- 
mer's day. 

Come,  clear  companions  of  my  youthful  hour, 
Fill  my  fond  breast  with  your  majestic  themes  ; 
Meet  me  again  on  hill,  by  stream,  or  bower, 
And  bathe  my  fancy  in  the  bliss  of  dreams. 
Vain  wish  !  no  more  the  star  of  Fancy  gleams  ; 
They  with  becoming  scorn  reject  thy  prayer ; 
Nor  will  they  haunt  thy  bower,  or  bless  thy  streams, 
No  more  to  thy  deserted  cell  repair :  — 
"  Go,  court  the  world,"  they  cry,  "  thou  art  not  worth 
our  care." 

Bustle  and  hurry,  noise  and  thrall  they  hate, 
And  plodding  Method  with  her  leaden  rule  ; 


132  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

And  all  that  swells  the  unwieldy  pomp  of  state ; 
And  all  that  binds  to  earth  the  golden  fool ; 
And  creeping  Labor  with  his  patient  tool ; 
Free  like  the  birds  they  wander  unconfined, 
Nor  dip  their  wings  in  Lucre's  muddy  pool ; 
Business  they  hate,  in  crowded  nooks  enshrined, 
That  spins  her  dirty  web,  and  clouds  the  ethereal  mind. 

Ah,  why  should  man,  in  hard,  unsocial  strife, 
And  withering  care  whose  vigils  never  cease, 
Fretting  away  this  little  thread  of  life, 
Of  his  sad  birthright  reap  such  large  increase  ! 
Why  should  he  toil  for  aught  but  bread  and  peace  ? 
Why  rear  to  heaven  his  day-built  pyramids  ? 
Nor  from  his  tasks  himself,  poor  slave  !  release  ; 
With  anxious  thought,  which  wholesome  rest  forbids, 
Drying  the  balm  of  sleep  from  Sorrow's  swollen  lids. 

Despising  cheap  delights,  he  loves  to  scoop 
His  marble  palace  from  the  rock's  hard  breast, 
And  in  close  dungeon  walls  himself  to  coop, 
On  golden  couches  wooing  pale  unrest ; 
With  foreign  looms  his  stately  halls  are  drest, 
And  grim-wrought  tapestry  clothes  the  darkened  room ; 
"While  in  the  flowery  vale  Peace  builds  her  nest, 
Amidst  the  purple  heath  or  yellow  broom, 
Or  where  'midst   rustling    corn   the    nodding   poppies 
bloom. 


H 


THE   FIRST   FIRE.  133 


THE  FIEST  FIRE. 

OCTOBER    1st,   1815. 

A,  old  acquaintance  !  many  a  month  has  past 
Since  last  I  viewed  thy  ruddy  face  ;  and  I, 


Shame  on  me  !  had  meantime  wellnigh  forgot 
That  such  a  friend  existed.     Welcome  now  !  — 
When  summer  suns  ride  high,  and  tepid  airs 
Dissolve  in  pleasing  languor,  then  indeed 
We  think  thee  needless,  and  in  wanton  pride 
Mock  at  thy  grim  attire  and  sooty  jaws, 
And  breath  sulphureous,  generating  spleen,  — 
As  Frenchmen  say  ;  Frenchmen,  who  never  knew 
The  sober  comforts  of  a  good  coal  fire. 

—  Let  me  imbibe  thy  warmth,  and  spread  myself 
Before  thy  shrine  adoring :  —  magnet  thou 
Of  strong  attraction,  daily  gathering  in 
Friends,  brethren,  kinsmen,  variously  dispersed, 
All  the  dear  charities  of  social  life, 
To  thy  close  circle.     Here  a  man  might  stand, 
And  say,  This  is  my  world !  who  would  not  bleed 
Rather  than  see  thy  violated  hearth 
Prest  by  a  hostile  foot  ?     The  winds  sing  shrill ; 
Heap  on  the  fuel !     Not  the  costly  board, 
Nor  sparkling  glass,  nor  wit,  nor  music,  cheer 
Without  thy  aid.     If  thrifty  thou  dispense 


134  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BAItBAULD. 

Thy  gladdening  influence,  in  the  chill  saloon 
The  silent  shrug  declares  the  unpleased  guest. 

—  How  grateful  to  belated  traveller, 
Homeward  returning,  to  behold  the  blaze 
From  cottage  window,  rendering  visible 

The  cheerful  scene  within !     There  sits  the  sire, 
Whose  wicker  chair,  in  sunniest  nook  enshrined, 
His  age's  privilege,  —  a  privilege  for  which 
Age  gladly  yields  up  all  precedence  else 
In  gay  and  bustling  scenes,  —  supports  his  limbs. 
Cherished  by  thee,  he  feels  the  grateful  warmth 
Creep  through  his  feeble  frame  and  thaw  the  ice 
Of  fourscore  years,  and  thoughts  of  youth  arise. 

—  Nor  less  the  young  ones  press  within,  to  see 
Thy  face  delighted,  and  with  husk  of  nuts, 

Or  crackling  holly,  or  the  gummy  pine, 

Feed  thy  immortal  hunger :  cheaply  pleased, 

They  gaze  delighted  while  the  leaping  flames 

Dart  like  an  adder's  tongue  upon  their  prey ; 

Or  touch  with  lighted  reed  thy  wreaths  of  smoke  ; 

Or  listen,  while  the  matron  sage  remarks 

Thy  bright  blue  scorching  flame  and  aspect  clear, 

Denoting  frosty  skies.     Thus  pass  the  hours, 

While  Winter  spends  without  his  idle  rage. 

—  Companion  of  the  solitary  man, 

From  gayer  scenes  withheld  !     With  thee  he  sits, 


THE   FIRST  FIRE.  135 

Converses,  moralizes ;  musing  asks 

How  many  aeras  of  uncounted  time 

Have  rolled  away  since  thy  black,  unctuous  food 

Was  green  with  vegetative  life,  and  what 

This  planet  then :  or  marks,  in  sprightlier  mood, 

Thy  flickering  smiles  play  round  the  illumined  room, 

And  fancies  gay  discourse,  life,  motion,  mirth, 

And  half  forgets  he  is  a  lonely  creature. 

—  Nor  less  the  bashful  poet  loves  to  sit 
Snug,  at  the  midnight  hour,  with  only  thee 
Of  his  lone  musings  conscious.     Oft  he  writes, 
And  blots,  and  writes  again ;  and  oft,  by  fits, 
Gazes  intent  with  eyes  of  vacancy 
On  thy  bright  face  ;  and  still  at  intervals, 
Dreading  the  critic's  scorn,  to  thee  commits, 
Sole  confidant  and  safe,  his  fancies  crude. 

—  0  wretched  he,  with  bolts  and  massy  bars 
In  narrow  cell  immured,  whose  green,  damp  walls, 
That  weep  unwholesome  dews,  have  never  felt 
Thy  purifying  influence  !     Sad  he  sits 
Day  after  day  till  in  his  youthful  limbs 
Life  stagnates,  and  the  hue  of  hope  is  fled 
From  his  wan  cheek.     And  scarce  less  wretched  he,  — 
When  wintry  winds  blow  loud  and  frosts  bite  keen,  — 
The  dweller  of  the  clay-built  tenement, 


106  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Poverty-struck,  who,  heartless,  strives  to  raise 
From  sullen  turf,  or  stick  plucked  from  the  hedge, 
The  short-lived  blaze  ;  while  chill  around  him  spreads 
The  dreary  fen,  and  Ague,  sallow-faced, 
Stares  through  the  broken  pane  ;  —  assist  him,  ye 
On  whose  warm  roofs  the  sun  of  plenty  shines, 
And  feel  a  glow  beyond  material  fire  ! 


THE   CATERPILLAR. 

"TVT~0,  helpless  thing,  I  cannot  harm  thee  now ; 

JL  1     Depart  in  peace,  thy  little  life  is  safe, 

For  I  have  scanned  thy  form  with  curious  eye, 

Xoted  the  silver  line  that  streaks  thy  back, 

The  azure  and  the  orange  that  divide 

Thy  velvet  sides ;  thee,  houseless  wanderer, 

My  garment  has  enfolded,  and  my  arm 

Felt  the  light  pressure  of  thy  hairy  feet ; 

Thou  hast  curled  around  my  finger ;  from  its  tip, 

Precipitous  descent !  with  stretched-out  neck, 

Bending  thy  head  in  airy  vacancy 

This  way  and  that,  inquiring,  thou  hast  seemed 

To  ask  protection ;  now,  I  cannot  kill  thee. 

Yet  I  have  sworn  perdition  to  thy  race, 

And  recent  from  the  slaughter  am  I  come 


THE   CATERPILLAR.  137 

Of  tribes  and  embryo  nations  :  I  have  sought 

With  sharpened  eye  and  persecuting  zeal, 

Where,  folded  in  their  silken  webs  they  lay 

Thriving  and  happy ;  swept  them  from  the  tree 

And  crushed  whole  families  beneath  my  foot ;   . 

Or,  sudden,  poured  on  their  devoted  heads 

The  vials  of  destruction.     This  I  've  done, 

Xor  felt  the  touch  of  pity  :  but  when  thou  — 

A  single  wretch,  escaped  the  general  doom, 

Making  me  feel  and  clearly  recognize 

Thine  individual  existence,  life, 

And  fellowship  of  sense  with  all  that  breathes  — 

Present'st  thyself  before  me,  I  relent, 

And  cannot  hurt  thy  weakness.     So  the  storm 

Of  horrid  war,  o'erwhelming  cities,  fields, 

And  peaceful  villages,  rolls  dreadful  on  : 

The  victor  shouts  triumphant ;  he  enjoys 

The  roar  of  cannon  and  the  clang  of  arms, 

And  urges,  by  no  soft  relentings  stopped, 

The  work  of  death  and  carnage.     Yet  should  one, 

A  single  sufferer  from  the  field  escaped,  ♦ 

Panting  and  pale,  and  bleeding  at  his  feet, 

Lift  his  imploring  eyes,  —  the  hero  weeps ; 

He  is  grown  human,  and  capricious  Pity, 

Which  would  not  stir  for  thousands,  melts  for  one 

With  sympathy  spontaneous  :  —  'T  is  not  Virtue, 

Yet  't  is  the  weakness  of  a  virtuous  mind. 


138  WORKS   OF   MBS.   BAEBAULD. 


OX  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCESS  CHARLOTTE. 

YES,  Britain  mourns,  as  with  electric  touch, 
For  youth,  for  love,  for  happiness  destroyed ; 
Her  universal  population  melts 
Jn  grief  spontaneous,  and  hard  hearts  are  moved, 
And  rough,  unpolished  natures  learn  to  feel 
For  those  they  envied,  levelled  in  the  dust 
By  Fate's  impartial  stroke ;  and  pulpits  sound 
With  vanity  and  woe  to  earthly  goods, 
And  urge  and  dry  the  tear.  —  Yet  one  there  is 
Who  'midst  this  general  burst  of  grief  remains 
In  strange  tranquillity  ;  whom  not  the  stir 
And  long-drawn  murmurs  of  the  gathering  crowd, 
That  by  his  very  windows  trail  the  pomp 
Of  hearse  and  blazoned  arms,  and  long  array 
Of  sad  funereal  rites,  nor  the  loud  groans 
And  deep-felt  anguish  of  a  husband's  heart, 
Can  move  to  mingle  with  this  flood  one  tear : 
In  careless  apathy,  perhaps  in  mirth, 
He  wears  the  day.     Yet  is  he  near  in  blood, 
The  very  stem  on  which  this  blossom  grew, 
And  at  his  knees  she  fondled  in  the  charm 
And  grace  spontaneous  which  alone  belongs 
To  untaught  infancy.     Yet,  0  forbear ! 


THE  WAKE   OF  THE  KING   OF   SPAIN.  139 

Nor  deem  him  hard  of  heart ;  for  awful,  struck 

By  Heaven's  severest  visitation,  sad, 

Like  a  scathed  oak  amidst  the  forest  trees, 

Lonely  he  stands  ;  —  leaves,  bud,  and  shoot,  and  fall; 

He  holds  no  sympathy  with  living  nature 

Or  time's  incessant  change.     Then  in  this  hour, 

While  pensive  thought  is  busy  with  the  woes 

And  restless  change  of  poor  humanity, 

Think  then,  0  think  of  him,  and  breathe  one  prayer, 

From  the  full  tide  of  sorrows  spare  one  tear 

For  him  who  does  not  weep  ! 


THE  WAKE  OE  THE  KLKG  OF  SPAIK* 

ARRAYED  in  robes  of  regal  state, 
But  stiff  and  cold,  the  monarch  sate  ; 
In  gorgeous  vests,  his  chair  beside, 
Stood  prince  and  peer,  the  nation's  pride ; 
And  paladin  and  high-born  dame 
Their  place  amid  the  circle  claim ; 
And  wands  of  office  lifted  high, 
And  arms  and  blazoned  heraldry,  — 

*  The  kings  of  Spain  for  nine  clays  after  death  are  placed  sitting  in 
robes  of  state  with  their  attendants  around  them,  and  solemnly  sum- 
moned by  the  proper  officers  to  their  meals  and  their  amusements  as 
if  living.  —  Ed. 


140  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

All  mute  like  marble  statues  stand, 
Nor  raise  the  eye,  nor  move  the  hand : 
No  voice,  no  sound  to  stir  the  air, 
The  silence  of  the  grave  is  there. 

The  portal  opens,  —  hark,  a  voice  ! 
* "  Come  forth,  0  king  !  0  king,  rejoice  ! 
The  bowl  is  filled,  the  feast  is  spread, 
Come  forth,  0  king  ! "     The  king  is  dead. 
The  bowl,  the  feast,  he  tastes  no  more, 
The  feast  of  life  for  him  is  o'er. 

Again  the  sounding  portals  shake, 
And  speaks  again  the  voice  that  spake : 
"  The  sun  is  high,  the  sun  is  warm, 
Forth  to  the  field  the  gallants  swarm, 
The  foaming  bit  the  courser  champs, 
His  hoof  the  turf  impatient  stamps ; 
Light  on  their  steeds  the  hunters  spring ; 
The  sun  is  high,  —  Come  forth,  0  king  ! " 

Along  these  melancholy  walls 

In  vain  the  voice  of  pleasure  calls  : 

The  horse  may  neigh/  and  bay  the  hound,  • 

He  hears  no  more  ;  his  sleep  is  sound. 

Retire  ;  —  once  more  the  portals  close  ; 

Leave,  leave  him  to  his  dread  repose. 


THE   BABY-HOUSE.  141 


THE   BABY-HOUSE. 

DEAB  Agatha,  I  give  you  joy, 
And  much  admire  your  pretty  toy 
A  mansion  in  itself  complete, 
And  fitted  to  give  guests  a  treat ; 
With  couch  and  table,  chest  and  chair, 
The  bed  or  supper  to  prepare ; 
We  almost  wish  to  change  ourselves 
To  fairy  forms  of  tripping  elves, 
To  press  the  velvet  couch,  and  eat 
From  tiny  cups  the  sugared  meat. 
I  much  suspect  that  many  a  sprite 
Inhabits  it  at  dead  of  night ; 
That,  as  they  dance,  the  listening  ear 
The  pat  of  fairy  feet  might  hear ; 
That,  just  as  you  have  said  your  prayers, 
They  hurry-scurry  down  the  stairs : 
And  you  11  do  well  to  try  to  find 
Tester  or  ring  they  've  left  behind. 

But  think  not,  Agatha,  you  own 
That  toy,  a  Baby-house,  alone ; 
For  many  a  sumptuous  one  is  found 
To  press  an  ampler  space  of  ground. 


142  WORKS    OF   MRS.   BABBAULD. 

The  broad-based  Pyramid  that  stands 

Casting  its  shade  in  distant  lands, 

Which  asked  some  mighty  nation's  toil 

With  mountain-weight  to  press  the  soil, 

And  there  has  raised  its  head  sublime 

Through  seras  of  uncounted  time,  — 

Its  use,  if  asked,  't  is  only  said, 

A  Baby-house  to  lodge  the  dead. 

Nor  less  beneath  more  genial  skies 

The  domes  of  pomp  and  folly  rise, 

Whose  sun  through  diamond  windows  streams, 

"While  gems  and  gold  reflect  his  beams ; 

Where  tapestry  clothes  the  storied  wall, 

And  fountains  spout  and  waters  fall ; 

The  peasant  faints  beneath  his  load, 

Nor  tastes  the  grain  his  hands  have  sowed, 

While  scarce  a  nation's  wealth  avails 

To  raise  thy  Baby-house,  Versailles. 

And  Baby-houses  oft  appear 

On  British  ground,  of  prince  or  peer ; 

Awhile  their  stately  heads  they  raise, 

The  admiring  traveller  stops  to  gaze ; 

He  looks  again  —  where  are  they  now  ? 

Gone  to  the  hammer  or  the  plough : 

Then  trees,  the  pride  of  ages,  fall, 

And  naked  stands  the  pictured  wall ; 

And  treasured  coins  from  distant  lands 


KIDDLE.  143 


Must  feel  the  touch  of  sordid  hands ; 
And  gems,  of  classic  stores  the  boast, 
Fall  to  the  cry  of  —  Who  bids  most  ? 
Then  do  not,  Agatha,  repine 
That  cheaper  Baby-house  is  thine. 


RIDDLE. 

THIS  creature,  though  extremely  thin, 
In  shape  is  almost  square ; 
Has  many  heads,  on  which  ne'er  grew 
One  single  lock  of  hair. 

Yet  several  of  their  tribe  there  are 

Whose  case  you  must  bewail, 
Of  whom  in  truth  it  may  be  said 

TKey  've  neither  head  nor  tail. 

In  purer  times,  ere  vice  prevailed, 

They  met  with  due  regard, 
The  wholesome  counsels  that  they  gave 

With  reverence  were  heard. 

To  marriages  and  funerals 
Their  presence  added  grace, 


1-W  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

And  though  the  king  himself  were  by, 
They  took  the  highest  place. 

Their  business  is  to  stir  up  men 
A  constant  watch  to  keep ; 

Instead  of  which,  —  0  sad  reverse  !  — 
They  make  them  fall  asleep. 

Not  so  in  former  times  it  was, 

Howe'er  it  came  to  pass ; 
Though  they  their  company  ne'er  left 

Till  empty  was  the  glass. 

The  moderns  ean't  be  charged  with  this, 

But  may  their  foes  defy, 
To  prove  such  practices  on  them, 

Though  they  're  extremely  dry. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN   A  LADY'S   ALBUM.  145 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ALBUM  OF  DIFFERENT 
COLORED   PAPER. 

LIFE'S  checkered  scenes  these  varied  leaves  display, 
Pure  white,  and  tenderest  blush,  and  fading  gray; — 
The  rosy  tints  of  morning  will  not  last, 
And  youth's  gay,  flattering  season  soon  is  past. 
0  may  thy  gentle  breast  no  changes  know, 
But  such  as  from  time's  smoothest  currents  flow ; 
No  cares,  but  those  whose  mellowing  influence  steals 
Mild  o'er  the  expansive  heart  that  thinks  and  feels ! 
And  with  affection  tried,  experienced  truth 
Tint  the  white  page  of  innocence  and  youth ! 
May  Love  for  thee  exert  his  fullest  power, 
And  gild  with  sunniest  gleams  life's  latest  hour  ! 
And  friendship,  health,  and  pleasure  long  be  thine, 
When  cold  the  heart  that  pens  this  feeble  line ! 


VOL.  II. 


146  WOKKS   OF   MRS.   BA11BAULD. 


TO  A  FRIEXD. 


MAY  never  more  of  pensive  melancholy 
Within  thy  heart,  beneath  thy  roof  appear, 
Than  just  to  break  the  charm  of  idle  folly, 
And  prompt  for  others'  woes  the  melting  tear ; 
No  more  than  just  that  tender  gloom  to  spread 
Where  thy  beloved  Muses  wont  to  stray, 
To  lift  the  thought  from  this  low  earthy  bed, 
Or  bid  hope  languish  from  a  brighter  day ; 
And  deeper  sink  within  thy  feeling  heart 
Love's  pleasing  wounds,  or  friendship's  polished  dart ! 


DEJECTION 

WHEN  sickness  clouds  the  languid  eye, 
And  seeds  of  sharp  diseases  fly 
Swift  through  the  vital  frame ; 
Rich  drugs  are  torn  from  earth  and  sea, 
And  balsam  drops  from  every  tree, 
To  quench  the  parching  flame. 


DEJECTION.  147 

But  oh !  what  opiate  can  assuage 

The  throbbing  breast's  tumultuous  rage, 

Which  mingling  passions  tear  ! 
What  art  the  wounds  of  grief  can  bind, 
Or  soothe  the  sick,  impatient  mind 

Beneath  corroding  care ! 

Not  all  the  potent  herbs  that  grow 
On  purple  heath  or  mountain's  brow 

Can  banished  peace  restore ; 
In  vain  the  spring  of  tears  to  dry, 
For  purer  air  or  softer  sky 

We  quit  our  native  shore. 

Friendship,  the  richest  balm  that  flows, 
Was  meant  to  heal  our  sharpest  woes, 

But  runs  not  always  pure ; 
And  Love  —  has  sorrows  of  his  own, 
Which  not  an  herb  beneath  the  moon 

Is  found  of  power  to  cure. 

Soft  Pity,  mild,  dejected  maid, 
With  tenderest  hand  applies  her  aid 

To  dry  the  frequent  tear; 
But  her  own  griefs,  of  finer  kind, 
Too  deeply  wound  the  feeling  mind 

With  anguish  more  severe. 


148 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


TO  ME.   BOWRIXG, 

ON  HIS  POETICAL    TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VARIOUS   LANGUAGES. 

BO  WRING,  the  music  of  thy  polished  strains 
Through  every  tongue  its  equal  power  sustains. 
To  the  rude  Russ  it  gives  a  softer  touch, 
It  melts  to  mellower  sounds  the  homely  Dutch, 
With  bloodless  conquest  from  each  land  it  bears 
The  precious  spoil  of  long-recorded  years  ; 
And,  pleased  its  holy  ardor  to  diffuse, 
With  thy  own  spirit  sanctifies  the  Muse. 
Thus,  in  some  window's  deep  recesses  laid, 
The  soft  iEolian  harp  its  power  displayed, 
From  the  shrill  east-wind  and  the  stormy  north 
It  drew  soft  airs  and  gentle  breathings  forth  ; 
Subdued  to  harmony  each  passing  sound, 
Waked  with  unusual  notes  the  echoes  round, 
With  happy  magic  softened,  as  it  past, 
The  hollow  whistling  of  the  keenest  blast ; 
And  each  rude  gust  that  swept  the  changing  sky 
Dissolved  to  strains  of  liquid  harmony. 


FRAGMENT.  149 


FRAGMENT. 

AS  the  poor  school-boy,  when  the  slow-paced  months 
Have  brought  vacation  times,  and  one  by  one 
His  playmates  and  companions  all  are  fled 
Or  ready  ;  and  to  him  —  to  him  alone 
No  summons  comes  ;  he  left  of  all  the  train 
Paces  with  lingering  steps  the  vacant  halls, 
No  longer  murmuring  with  the  Muse's  song, 
And  silent  playground  scattered  wide  around 
With  implements  of  sports,  resounding  once 
With  cheerful  shouts  ;  and  hears  no  sound  of  wheels 
To  bear  him  to  his  father's  bosom  home ; 
For,  conscious  though  he  be  of  time  misspent, 
And  heedless  faults  and  much  amiss,  yet  hopes 
A  father's  pardon  and  a  father's  smile 
Blessing  his  glad  return  ....  Thus  I 
Look  to  the  hour  when  I  shall  follow  those 
That  are  at  rest  before  me. 


150 


WORKS   OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 


OCTOGENARY  REFLECTIONS. 


SAY,  ye  who  through  this  round  of  eighty  years 
Have  proved  its  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears, 
Say,  what  is  life,  ye  veterans,  who  have  trod, 
Step  following  steps,  its  flowery,  thorny  road  ? 
Enough  of  good  to  kindle  strong  desire, 
Enough  of  ill  to  damp  the  rising  fire, 
Enough  of  love  and  fancy,  joy  and  hope, 
To  fan  desire  and  give  the  passions  scope. 
Enough  of  disappointment,  sorrow,  pain, 
To  seal  the  wise  man's  sentence,  All  is  vain,  — 
And  quench  the  wish  to  live  those  years  again. 
Science  for  man  unlocks  her  various  store, 
And  gives  enough  to  urge  the  wish  for  more ; 
Systems  and  suns  lie  open  to  his  gaze, 
Nature  invites  his  love,  and  God  his  praise ; 
Yet  doubt  and  ignorance  with  his  feelings  sport, 
And  Jacob's  ladder  is  some  rounds  too  short. 
Yet  still  to  humble  hope  enough  is  given 
Of  light  from  reason's  lamp  and  light  from  Heaven, 
To  teach  us  what  to  follow,  what  to  shun, 
To  bow  the  head  and  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done  ! " 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   VIRTUOUS.  151 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE  VIRTUOUS. 

SWEET  is  the  scene  when  Virtue  dies  ! 
When  sinks  a  righteous  soul  to  rest, 
How  mildly  beam  the  closing  eyes, 

How  gently  heaves  the  expiring  breast  s 

So  fades  a  summer  cloud  away ; 

So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are  o'er ; 
So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day  ; 

So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shore. 

Triumphant  smiles  the  victor's  brow, 
Fanned  by  some  angel's  purple  wing ; 

Where  is,  0  Grave  !  thy  victory  now  ? 
And  where,  insidious  Death  !  thy  sting  ? 

Farewell,  conflicting  joys  and  fears, 

Where  light  and  shade  alternate  dwell ; 

How  bright  the  unchanging  morn  appears  ! 
Farewell,  inconstant  world,  farewell ! 

Its  duty  done,  —  as  sinks  the  clay, 
Light  from  its  load  the  spirit  flies ; 

While  heaven  and  earth  combine  to  say, 
"  Sweet  is  the  scene  when  Virtue  dies  ! " 


152 


WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


HYMNS. 


HYMN   I. 


JEHOVAH  reigns  :  let  every  nation  hear, 
And  at  his  footstool  bow  with  holy  fear  ; 
Let  heaven's  high  arches  echo  with  his  name, 
And  the  wide-peopled  earth  his  praise  proclaim ; 
Then  send  it  down  to  hell's  deep  glooms  resounding, 
Through  all  her  caves  in  dreadful  murmurs  sounding. 

He  rules  with  wide  and  absolute  command 
O'er  the  broad  ocean  and  the  steadfast  land  : 
Jehovah  reigns,  unbounded  and  alone, 
And  all  creation  hangs  beneath  his  throne : 
He  reigns  alone ;  let  no  inferior  nature 
Usurp  or  share  the  throne  of  the  Creator. 

He  saw  the  struggling  beams  of  infant  light 
Shoot  through  the  massy  gloom  of  ancient  night ; 
His  spirit  hushed  the  elemental  strife, 
And  brooded  o'er  the  kindling  seeds  of  life  ; 
Seasons  and  months  began  their  long  procession, 
And  measured  o'er  the  year  in  bright  succession. 


The  joyful  sun  sprung  up  the  ethereal  way, 
Strong  as  a  giant,  as  a  bridegroom  gay ; 


HYMNS.  153 

And  the  pale  moon  diffused  her  shadowy  light, 

Superior  o'er  the  dusky  brow  of  night ; 
Ten  thousand  glittering  lamps  the  skies,  adorning, 
Numerous  as  dew-drops  from  the  womb  of  morning. 

Earth's  blooming  face  with  rising  flowers  he  drest, 
And  spread  a  verdant  mantle  o'er  her  breast ; 
Then  from  the  hollow  of  his  hand  he  pours 
The  circling  water  round  her  winding  shores, 
The  new7born  world  in  their  cool  arms  embracing 
And  with  soft  murmurs  still  her  banks  caressing. 

At  length  she  rose  complete  in  finished  pride, 

All  fair  and  spotless  as  a  virgin  bride ; 

Fresh  with  untarnished  lustre  as  she  stood, 

Her  Maker  blessed  his  work,  and  called  it  good ; 
The  morning-stars  with  joyful  acclamation 
Exulting  sang,  and  hailed  the  new  creation. 

Yet  this  fair  world,  the  creature  of  a  day, 
Though  built  by  God's  right  hand,  must  pass  away ; 
And  long  oblivion  creep  o'er  mortal  tilings, 
The  fate  of  empires,  and  the  pride  of  kings ; 
External  night  shall  veil  their  proudest  story, 
And  drop  the  curtain  o'er  all  human  glory. 

The  sun  himself,  with  weary  clouds  opprest, 

Shall  in  his  silent,  dark  pavilion  rest ; 
7* 


154  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

His  golden  urn  shall  broke  and  useless  lie, 
Amidst  the  common  ruins  of  the  sky ; 
The  stars  rush  headlong  in  the  wild  commotion, 
And  bathe  their  glittering  foreheads  in  the  ocean. 

But  fixed,  0  God !  forever  stands  thy  throne  ; 

Jehovah  reigns,  a  universe  alone  ; 

The  eternal  lire  that  feeds  each  vital  flame, 

Collected  or  diffused,  is  still  the  same. 
He  dwells  within  his  own  unfathomed  essence, 
And  fills  all  space  with  his  unbounded  presence. 

But,  oh !  our  highest  notes  the  theme  debase, 
And  silence  is  our  least  injurious  praise  : 
Cease,  cease  your  songs,  the  daring  flight  control, 
Eevere  him  in  the  stillness  of  the  soul ; 
With  silent  duty  meekly  bend  before  him, 
And  deep  within  your  inmost  hearts  adore  him. 


HYMN  II. 

Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise,* 
For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days ; 

*  "  Although  the  fig-tree  shall  not  blossom,  neither  shall  fruit  be  in 
the  vines  ;  the  labor  of  the  olive  shall  fail,  and  the  fields  shall  yield 
no  meat ;  the  flocks  shall  be  cut  off  from  the  fold,  and  there  shall  be 
no  herd  in  the  stalls  :  yet  I  will  rejoice  in  the  Lord,  I  will  joy  in 
the  God  of  my  salvation."  —  Habakkuk  iii.  17,  18. 


HYMNS.  155 

Bounteous  source  of  every  joy, 
Let  thy  praise  our  tongues  employ  ; 

For  the  blessings  of  the  field, 
For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 
For  the  vine's  exalted  juice, 
For  the  generous  olive's  use ; 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain, 
Yellow  sheaves  of  ripened  grain  ; 
Clouds  that  drop  their  fattening  dews, 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse  : 

All  that  Spring  with  bounteous  hand 
Scatters  o'er  the  smiling  land : 
All  that  liberal  Autumn  pours 
From  her  rich,  o'erflowing  stores : 

These  to  thee,  my  God,  we  owe ; 
Source  whence  all  our  blessings  flow ; 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 

Yet  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear ; 
Should  the  fig-tree's  blasted  shoot 
Drop  her  green,  untimely  fruit ;    - 


156  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 
Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store  ; 
Though  the  sickening  flocks  should  fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall ; 

Should  thine  altered  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ; 
Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 
And  the  rising  year  destroy  : 

Yet  to  thee  my  soul  should  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise  ; 
And,  when  every  blessing  's  flown, 
Love  thee  —  for  thyself  alone. 


HYMN   III.- 

FOR  EASTER  SUNDAY. 

Again  the  Lord  of  life  and  light 

Awakes  the  kindling  ray ; 
Unseals  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 

And  pours  increasing  day. 

0  what  a  night  was  that,  which  wrapt 
The  heathen  world  in  gloom  ! 


HYMNS.  157 

0  what  a  sun  which  broke  this  day, 
Triumphant  from  the  tomb  ! 

This  day  be  grateful  homage  paid, 

And  loud  hosannas  sung ; 
Let  gladness  dwell  in  every  heart, 

And  praise  on  every  tongue. 

Ten  thousand  differing  lips  shall  join 

To  hail  this  welcome  morn, 
Which  scatters  blessings  from  its  wings 

To  nations  yet  unborn. 

Jesus,  the  friend  of  human-kind, 

With  strong  compassion  moved, 
Descended  like  a  pitying  God, 

To  save  the  souls  he  loved. 

The  powers  of  darkness  leagued  in  vain 

To  bind  his  soul  in  death ; 
He  shook  their  kingdom,  when  he  fell, 

With  his  expiring  breath. 

Not  long  the  toils  of  hell  could  keep 

The  hope  of  Judah's  line  ; 
Corruption  never  could  take  hold 

On  aught  so  much  divine. 


158  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

And  now  his  conquering  chariot- wheels 

Ascend  the  lofty  skies ; 
While  broke  beneath  his  powerful  cross 

Death's  iron  sceptre  lies. 

Exalted  high  at  God's  right  hand, 

The  Lord  of  all  below, 
Through  him  is  pardoning  love  dispensed, 

And  boundless  blessings  flow. 

And  still  for  erring,  guilty  man 

A  brother's  pity  flows ; 
And  still  his  bleeding  heart  is  touched 

With  memory  of  our  woes. 

To  thee,  my  Saviour  and  my  King, 

Glad  homage  let  me  give  ; 
And  stand  prepared  like  thee  to  die, 

With  thee  that  I  may  live. 


HYMN  IV. 

Behold,  where,  breathing  love  divine, 

Our  dying  Master  stands  ! 
His  weeping  followers,  gathering  round, 

Keceive  his  last  commands. 


HYMNS.  159 

From  that  mild  teacher's  parting  lips 

What  tender  accents  fell ! 
The  gentle  precept  which  he  gave 

Became  its  author  well. 

"  Blest  is  the  man  whose  softening  heart 

Feels  all  another's  pain  ; 
To  whom  the  supplicating  eye 

Was  never  raised  in  vain. 

"Whose  breast  expands  with  generous  warmth 

A  stranger's  woes  to  feel ; 
And  bleeds  in  pity  o'er  the  wound 

He  wants  the  power  to  heal. 

"  He  spreads  his  kind,  supporting  arms 

To  every  child  of  grief; 
His  secret  bounty  largely  flows, 

And  brings  unasked  relief. 

"  To  gentle  offices  of  love 

His  feet  are  never  slow ; 
He  views  through  mercy's  melting  eye 

A  brother  in  a  foe. 

"  Peace  from  the  bosom  of  his  God, 
My  peace  to  him  I  give ; 


160  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

And  when  he  kneels  before  the  throne, 
His  trembling  soul  shall  live. 

"  To  him  protection  shall  be  shown, 

And  mercy  from  above 
Descend  on  those  who  thus  fulfil 

The  perfect  law  of  love." 


HYMN  V. 

Awake,  my  soul !  lift  up  thine  eyes, 
See  where  thy  foes  against  thee  rise, 
In  long  array,  a  numerous  host ; 
Awake,  my  soul !  or  thou  art  lost. 

Here  giant  Danger  threatening  stands 
Mustering  his  pale,  terrific  bands  ; 
There  Pleasure's  silken  banners  spread, 
And  willing  souls  are  captive  led. 

See  where  rebellious  passions  rage, 
And  fierce  desires  and  lusts  engage ; 
The  meanest  foe  of  all  the  train 
Has  thousands  and  ten  thousands  slain. 

Thou  tread'st  upon  enchanted  ground, 
Perils  and  snares  beset  thee  round ; 


HYMNS.  161 

Beware  of  all,  guard  every  part, 
But  most,  the  traitor  in  thy  heart. 

"  Come  then,  my  soul,  now  learn  to  wield 
The  weight  of  thine  immortal  shield  " ; 
Put  on  the  armor  from  above, 
Of  heavenly  truth  and  heavenly  love. 

The  terror  and  the  charm  repel, 
And  powers  of  earth,  and  powers  of  hell ; 
The  Man  of  Calvary  triumphed  here ; 
Why  should  his  faithful  followers  fear  ? 


HYMN  VI. 

PIOUS   FRIENDSHIP. 

How  blest  the  sacred  tie  that  binds, 

In  union  sweet,  according  minds  ! 

How  swift  the  heavenly  course  they  run, 

Whose  hearts,  whose  faith,  whose  hopes,  are  one ! 

To  each  the  soul  of  each  how  dear ! 
What  jealous  love,  what  holy  fear ! 
How  doth  the  generous  flame  within 
Kefine  from  earth  and  cleanse  from  sin ! 


1G2  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Their  streaming  tears  together  flow 
For  human  guilt  and  mortal  woe ; 
Their  ardent  prayers  together  rise 
Like  mingled  flames  in  sacrifice. 

Together  both  they  seek  the  place 
Where  God  reveals  his  awful  face : 
How  high,  how  strong,  their  raptures  swell, 
There  's  none  but  kindred  souls  can  tell. 

Nor  shall  the  glowing  flame  expire 
When  nature  droops  her  sickening  fire ; 
Then  shall  they  meet  in  realms  above, 
A  heaven  of  joy  —  because  of  love. 


HYMN  VII. 

Come  unto  me,  all  that  are  weary  and  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give 
you  rest." 

Come,  said  Jesus'  sacred  voice, 
Come  and  make  my  paths  your  choice ; 
I  will  guide  you  to  your  home ; 
Weary  pilgrim,  hither  come  ! 

Thou  who  houseless,  sole,  forlorn, 

Long  hast  borne  the  proud  world's  scorn, 


HYMNS.  163 

Long  hast  roamed  the  barren  waste,  — 
Weary  pilgrim,  hither  haste  ! 

Ye,  who  tossed  on  beds  of  pain, 
Seek  for  ease,  but  seek  in  vain, 
Ye,  whose  swollen  and  sleepless  eyes 
Watch  to  see  the  morning  rise  ; 

Ye,  by  fiercer  anguish  torn, 
In  remorse  for  guilt  who  mourn ; 
Here  repose  your  heavy  care, 
A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear ! 

Sinner,  come  !  for  here  is  found 
Balm  that  flows  for  every  wound ; 
Peace  that  ever  shall  endure, 
Best  eternal,  sacred,  sure. 


HYMN  VIII. 
u  The  world  is  not  their  friend,  nor  the  world's  law." 

Lo,  where  a  crowd  of  pilgrims  toil' 

Yon  craggy  steeps  among  ! 
Strange  their  attire,  and  strange  their  mien, 

As  wild  they  press  along. 

Their  eyes  with  bitter  streaming  tears 
Now  bend  towards  the  ground, 


164  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Now  rapt,  to  heaven  their  looks  the)'  raise ; 
And  bursts  of  song  resound. 

And  hark  !  a  voice  from  midst  the  throng 
Cries,  "  Stranger,  wouldst  thou  know 

Our  name,  our  race,  our  destined  home, 
Our  cause  of  joy  or  woe, — 

"  Our  country  is  Emanuel's  land, 

"We  seek  that  promised  soil ; 
The  songs  of  Zion  cheer  our  hearts, 

"While  strangers  here  we  toil. 

"  Oft  do  our  eyes  with  joy  o'erflow, 

And  oft  are  bathed  in  tears ; 
Yet  naught  but  heaven  our  hopes  can  raise, 

And  naught  but  sin  our  fears. 

"  The  flowers  that  spring  along  the  road 

We  scarcely  stoop  to  pluck ; 
"We  walk  o'er  beds  of  shining  ore, 

Xor  waste  one  wistful  look ;  . 

"  We  tread  the  path  our  Master  trod, 

"We  bear  the  cross  he  bore ; 
And  ever}*  thorn  that  wounds  our  feet 

His  temples  pierced  before : 


HYMNS.  165 

"  Our  powers  are  oft  dissolved  away 

In  ecstasies  of  love ; 
And  while  our  bodies  wander  here, 

Our  souls  are  fixed  above ; 

"  We  purge  our  mortal  dross  away, 

Eefining  as  we  run ; 
But  while  we  die  to  earth  and  sense, 

Our  heaven  is  begun." 


HYMN  IX. 

Joy  to  the  followers  of  the  Lord  ! 
Thus  saith  the  sure,  the  eternal  word. 
Not  of  earth  the  joy  it  brings, 
Tempered  in  celestial  springs : 

'T  is  the  joy  of  pardoned  sin, 
When  conscience  cries,  'T  is  well  within ; 
'T  is  the  joy  that  fills  the  breast 
When  the  passions  sink  to  rest : 

'T  is  a  joy  that,  seated  deep, 
Leaves  not  when  we  sigh  and  weep ; 
It  spreads  itself  in  virtuous  deeds, 
With  sorrow  sighs,  in  pity  bleeds. 


166  WORKS   OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Stern  and  awful  are  its  tones 
When  the  patriot  martyr  groans, 
And  the  throbbing  pulse  beats  high 
To  rapture,  mixed  with  agony. 

A  tenderer,  softer  form  it  wears, 
Dissolved  in  love,  dissolved  in  tears, 
When  humble  souls  a  Saviour  greet, 
And  sinners  clasp  the  mercy-seat. 

'T  is  joy  e'en  here  !  a  budding  flower, 
Struggling  with  snows  and  storm  and  shower, 
And  waits  the  moment  to  expand, 
Transplanted  to  its  native  land. 


HYMN  X. 

A  PASTORAL  HYMN. 

*  Gentle  pilgrim,  tell  me  why 
Dost  thou  fold  thine  arms  and  sigh, 
And  wistful  cast  thine  eyes  around,  — 
Whither,  pilgrim,  art  thou  bound  ? " 
"  The  road  to  Zion's  gates  I  seek ; 
If  thou  canst  inform  me,  speak." 
"  Keep  yon  right-hand  path  with  care, 


HYMNS.  167 

Though  crags  obstruct,  and  brambles  tear ; 

You  just  discern  a  narrow  track,  — 

Enter  there  and  turn  not  back." 

"  Say  where  that  pleasant  pathway  leads, 

Winding  down  yon  flowery  meads  ? 

Songs  and  dance  the  way  beguiles, 

Every  face  is  drest  in  smiles." 

"  Shun  with  care  that  flowery  way ; 

'T  will  lead  thee,  pilgrim,  far  astray." 

"  Guide  or  counsel  do  I  need  ?  " 

"  Pilgrim,  he  who  runs  may  read." 

*  Is  the  way  that  I  must  keep 

Crossed  by  waters  wide  and  deep  ? " 

"  Did  it  lead  through  flood  and  fire, 

Thou  must  not  stop,  —  thou  must  not  tire." 

"  Till  I  have  my  journey  past, 

Tell  me,  will  the  daylight  last  ? 

Will  the  sky  be  bright  and  clear 

Till  the  evening  shades  appear  ? " 

"  Though  the  sun  now  rides  so  high, 

Clouds  may  veil  the  evening  sky ; 

East  sinks  the  sun,  fast  wears  the  day, 

Thou  must  not  stop  —  thou  must  not  stay : 

God  speed  thee,  pilgrim,  on  thy  way ! " 


168  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

SABBATH   HYMNS. 

HYMN   XL 

SLEEP,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 
Of  earth  and  folly  born  ! 
Ye  shall  not  dim  the  light  that  streams 
From  this  celestial  morn. 

To-morrow  will  be  time  enough 

To  feel  your  harsh  control ; 
Ye  shall  not  violate  this  day, 

The  sabbath  of  my  soul. 

Sleep,  sleep  forever,  guilty  thoughts  ! 

Let  fires  of  vengeance  die  ; 
And,  purged  from  sin,  may  I  behold 

A  God  of  purity. 

HYMN  XII. 

When,  as  returns  this  solemn  day, 
Man  comes  to  meet  his  maker,  God, 
What  rites,  what  honors  shall  he  pay  ? 
How  spread  his  sovereign's  praise  abroad  ? 


SABBATH   HYMNS.  169 

From  marble  domes  and  gilded  spires 
Shall  curling  clouds  of  incense  rise  ? 
And  gems,  and  gold,  and  garlands  deck 
The  costly  pomp  of  sacrifice  ? 

Vain  sinful  man  !     Creation's  lord 
Thy  golden  offerings  well  may  spare ; 
But  give  thy  heart,  and  thou  shalt  find 
Here  dwells  a  God  who  heareth  prayer. 


VOL.    II. 


PKOSE   WORKS 


Prose  Works 


THE  HILL  OF   SCIENCE: 

A  VISION. 

IN  that  season  of  the  year  when  the  serenity  of  the 
sky,  the  various  fruits  which  cover  the  ground,  the 
discolored  foliage  of  the  trees,  and  all  the  sweet  but 
fading  graces  of  inspiring  autumn  open  the  mind  to 
benevolence,  and  dispose  it  for  contemplation,  I  was 
wandering  in  a  beautiful  and  romantic  country,  till 
curiosity  began  to  give  way  to  weariness ;  and  I  sat  me 
down  on  the  fragment  of  a  rock  overgrown  with  moss, 
where  the  rustling  of  the  falling  leaves,  the  dashing  of 
waters,  and  the  hum  of  the  distant  city  soothed  my 
mind  into  the  most  perfect  tranquillity ;  and  sleep 
insensibly  stole  upon  me  as  I  was  indulging  the 
agreeable  reveries  which  the  objects  around  me  natu- 
rally inspired. 

I  immediately  found  myself  in  a  vast  extended  plain, 
in  the  middle  of  which  arose  a  mountain  higher  than  I 


174  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

had  before  any  conception  of.  It  was  covered  with  a 
multitude  of  people,  chiefly  youth ;  many  of  whom 
pressed  forwards  with  the  liveliest  expression  of  ardor 
in  their  countenance,  though  the  way  was  in  many 
places  steep  and  difficult.  I  observed  that  those  who 
had  but  just  begun  to  climb  the  hill  thought  themselves 
not  far  from  the  top ;  but  as  they  proceeded,  new  hills 
were  continually  rising  to  their  view ;  and  the  summit 
of  the  highest  they  could  before  discern  seemed  but  the 
foot  of  another,  till  the  mountain  at  length  appeared 
to  lose  itself  in  the  clouds.  As  I  was  gazing  on  these 
things  with  astonishment,  my  good  genius  suddenly 
appeared.  "The  mountain  before  thee,"  said  he,  "is 
the  hill  of  Science.  On  the  top  is  the  temple  of  Truth, 
whose  head  is  above  the  clouds,  and  whose  face  is 
covered  with  a  veil  of  pure  light.  Observe  the  progress 
of  her  votaries ;  be  silent  and  attentive." 

I  saw  that  the  only  regular  approach  to  the"  moun- 
tain was  by  a  gate  called  the  gate  of  languages.  It 
was  kept  by  a  woman  of  a  pensive  and  thoughtful 
appearance,  whose  lips  were  continually  moving,  as 
though  she  repeated  something  to  herself.  Her  name 
was  Memory.  On  entering  this  first  enclosure  I  was 
stunned  with  a  confused  murmur  of  jarring  voices  and 
dissonant  sounds,  which  increased  upon  me  to  such  a 
degree  that  I  was  utterly  confounded,  and  could  com- 
pare the  noise  to  nothing  but  the  confusion  of  tongues 


THE   HILL   OF   SCIENCE.  175 

at  Babel.  The  road  was  also  rough  and  stony,  and 
rendered  more  difficult  by  heaps  of  rubbish  continually 
tumbled  down  from  the  higher  parts  of  the  mountain, 
and  by  broken  ruins  of  ancient  buildings,  which  the 
travellers  were  obliged  to  climb  over  at  every  step ; 
insomuch  that  many,  disgusted  with  so  rough  a  begin- 
ning, turned  back,  and  attempted  the  mountain  no 
more :  while  others,  having  conquered  this  difficulty, 
had  no  spirits  to  ascend  further,  and,  sitting  down  on 
some  fragment  of  the  rubbish,  harangued  the  mul- 
titude below  with  the  greatest  marks  of  importance 
and  self-complacency. 

About  half-way  up  the  hill,  I  observed  on  each  side 
of  the  path  a  thick  forest  covered  with  continual  fogs, 
and  cut  out  into  labyrinths,  cross  alleys,  and  serpentine 
walks,  entangled  with  thorns  and  briers.  This  was 
called  the  wood  of  Error:  and  I  heard  the  voices  of 
many  who  were  lost  up  and  down  in  it,  calling  to  one 
another,  and  endeavoring  in  vain  to  extricate  them- 
selves. The  trees  in  many  places  shot  their  boughs 
over  the  path,  and  a  thick  mist  often  rested  on  it ;  yet 
never  so  much  but  that  it  was  discernible  by  the  light 
which  beamed  from  the  countenance  of  Truth. 

In  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  mountain  were  placed 
the  bowers  of  the  Muses,  whose  office  it  was  to  cheer 
the  spirits  of  the  travellers,  and  encourage  their  faint- 
ing steps  with  songs  from  their  divine  harps.     Not  far 


176 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


from  hence  were  the  fields  of  Fiction,  filled  with  a 
variety  of  wild  flowers  springing  up  in  the  greatest 
luxuriance,  of  richer  scents  and  brighter  colors  than  I 
had  observed  in  any  other  climate.  And  near  them 
was  the  dark  walk  of  Allegory,  so  artificially  shaded 
that  the  light  at  noonday  was  never  stronger  than  that 
of  a  bright  moonshine.  This  gave  it  a  pleasingly  ro- 
mantic air  ~for  those  who  delighted  in  contemplation. 
The  paths  and  alleys  were  perplexed  with  intricate 
windings,  and  were  all  terminated  with  the  statue  of 
a  Grace,  a  Virtue,  or  a  Muse. 

After  I  had  observed  these  things  I  turned  my  eyes 
towards  the  multitudes  who  were  climbing  the  steep 
ascent,  and  observed  amongst  them  a  youth  of  a  lively 
look,  a  piercing  eye,  and  something  fiery  and  irregular 
in  all  his  motions.  His  name  was  Genius.  He  darted 
like  an  eagle  up  the  mountain,  and  left  his  companions 
gazing  after  him  with  envy  and  admiration:  but  his 
progress  was  unequal,  and  interrupted  by  a  thousand 
caprices'.  When  Pleasure  warbled  in  the  valley,  he 
mingled  in  her  train.  When  Pride  beckoned  towards 
the  precipice,  he  ventured  to  the  tottering  edge.  He 
delighted  in  devious  and  untried  paths ;  and  made  so 
many  excursions  from  the  road  that  his  feebler  compan- 
ions often  outstripped  him.  I  observed  that  the  Muses 
beheld  him  with  partiality;  but  Truth  often  frowned 
and  turned  aside  her  face.   While  Genius  was  thus  wast- 


THE  HILL   OF   SCIENCE.  177 

ing  his  strength  in  eccentric  flights,  I  saw  a  person  of  a 
very  different  appearance,  named  Application.  He  crept 
along  with  a  slow  and  unremitting  pace,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  top  of  the  mountain,  patiently  removing  every 
stone  that  obstructed  his  way,  till  he  saw  most  of  those 
below  him  who  had  at  first  derided  his  slow  and  toil- 
some progress.  Indeed,  there  were  few  who  ascended 
the  hill  with  equal  and  uninterrupted  steadiness ;  for, 
besides  the  difficulties  of  the  way,  they  were  continually 
solicited  to  turn  aside  by  a  numerous  crowd  of  Appe- 
tites, Passions,  and  Pleasures,  whose  importunity,  when 
they  had  once  complied  with,  they  became  less  and  less 
able  to  resist ;  and,  though  they  often  returned  to  the 
path,  the  asperities  of  the  road  were  more  severely  felt, 
the  hill  appeared  more  steep  and  rugged,  the  fruits 
which  were  wholesome  and  refreshing  seemed  harsh 
and  ill-tasted,  their  sight  grew  dim,  and  their  feet 
tripped  at  every  little  obstruction. 

I  saw,  with  some  surprise,  that  the  Muses,  whose 
business  was  to  cheer  and  encourage  those  who  were 
toiling  up  the  ascent,  would  often  sing  in  the  bowers 
of  Pleasure,  and  accompany  those  who  were  enticed 
away  at  the  call  of  the  Passions.  They  accompanied 
them,  however,  but  a  little  way,  and  always  forsook 
them  when  they  lost  sight  of  the  hill.  Their  tyrants 
then  doubled  their  chains  upon  the  unhappy  captives, 
and  led  them  away  without  resistance  to  the  cells  of 

8*  L 


L 


178  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Ignorance  or  the  mansions  of  Misery.  Amongst  the 
innumerable  seducers  who  were  endeavoring  to  draw 
away  the  votaries  of  Truth  from  the  path  of  Science, 
there  was  one  so  little  formidable  in  her  appearance, 
and  so  gentle  and  languid  in  her  attempts,  that  I  should 
scarcely  have  taken  notice  of  her,  but  for  the  numbers 
she  had  imperceptibly  loaded  with  her  chains.  In- 
dolence (for  so  she  was  called),  far  from  proceeding  to 
open  hostilities,  did  not  attempt  to  turn  their  feet  out 
of  the  path,  but  contented  herself  with  retarding  their 
progress ;  and  the  purpose  she  could  not  force  them  to 
abandon,  she  persuaded  them  to  delay.  Her  touch  had 
a  power  like  that  of  the  torpedo,  which  withered  the 
strength  of  those  who  came  within  its  influence.  Her 
unhappy  captives  still  turned  their  faces  towards  the 
temple,  and  always  •  hoped  to  arrive  there ;  but  the 
ground  seemed  to  slide  from  beneath  their  feet,  and 
they  found  themselves  at  the  bottom  before  they  sus- 
pected that  they  had  changed  their  place.  The  placid 
serenity  which  at  first  appeared  in  their  countenance 
changed  by  degrees  into  a  melancholy  languor,  which 
was  tinged  with  deeper  and  deeper  gloom  as  they  glided 
down  the  stream  of  Insignificance ;  a  dark  and  sluggish 
water,  which  is  curled  by  no  breeze  and  enlivened  by 
no  murmur,  till  it  falls  into  a  dead  sea,  where  the 
startled  passengers  are  awakened  by  the  shock,  and  the 
next  moment  buried  in  the  gulf  of  Oblivion. 


THE   HILL   OF   SCIENCE.  179 

Of  all  the  unhappy  deserters  from  the  paths  of 
Science,  none  seemed  less  able  to  return  than  the 
followers  of  Indolence.  The  captives  of  Appetite  and 
Passion  could  often  seize  the  moment  when  their 
tyrants  were  languid  or  asleep,  to  escape  from  their 
enchantment ;  but  the  dominion  of  Indolence  wTas  con- 
stant and  unremitted,  and  seldom  resisted  till  resistance 
was  in  vain. 

After  contemplating  these  things  I  turned  my  eyes 
towards  the  top  of  the  mountain,  where  the  air  was 
always  pure  and  exhilarating,  the  path  shaded  with 
laurels  and  other  evergreens,  and  the  effulgence  which 
beamed  from  the  face  of  the  goddess  seemed  to  shed  a 
glory  round  her  votaries.  "  Happy,"  said  I,  "  are  they 
who  are  permitted  to  ascend  the  mountain  ! " — but  while 
I  was  pronouncing  this  exclamation  with  uncommon 
ardor,  I  saw  standing  beside  me  a  form  of  diviner 
features  and  a  more  benign  radiance.  "  Happier,"  said 
she,  "  are  those  whom  Virtue  conducts  to  the  mansions 
of  Content ! " — "  What,"  said  I,  "  does  Virtue  then  reside 
in  the  vale  ? "  —  "I  am  found,"  said  she,  " in  the  vale, 
and  I  illuminate  the  mountain.  I  cheer  the  cottager  at 
his  toil,  and  inspire  the  sage  at  his  meditation.  I 
mingle  in  the  crowd  of  cities,  and  bless  the  hermit  in 
his  cell.  I  have  a  temple  in  every  heart  that  owns  my 
influence ;  and  to  him  that  wishes  for  me  I  am  already 
present.  Science  may  raise  you  to  eminence,  but  I  alone 


L 


180 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


can  guide  you  to  felicity ! "  While  the  goddess  was 
thus  speaking,  I  stretched  out  my  arms  towards  her 
with  a  vehemence  which  broke  my  slumbers.  The 
chill  dews  were  falling  around  me,  and  the  shades  of 
evening  stretched  over  the  landscape.  I  hastened 
homeward,  and  resigned  the  night  to  silence  and 
meditation. 


ON   ROMANCES.  181 


ON  ROMANCES. 


AN  IMITATION. 


OF  all  the  multifarious  productions  which  the 
efforts  of  superior  genius  or  the  labors  of  scho- 
lastic industry  have  crowded  upon  the  world,  none  are 
perused  with  more  insatiable  avidity,  or  disseminated 
with  more  universal  applause,  than  the  narrations  of 
feigned  events,  descriptions  of  imaginary  scenes,  and 
delineations  of  ideal  characters.  The  celebrity  of  other 
authors  is  confined  within  very  narrow  limits.  The 
geometrician  and  divine,  the  antiquary  and  the  critic, 
however  distinguished  by  uncontested  excellence,  can 
only  hope  to  please  those  whom  a  conformity  of  dispo- 
sition has  engaged  in  similar  pursuits ;  and  must  be 
content  to  be  regarded  by  the  rest  of  the  world  with  the 
smile  of  frigid  indifference,  or  the  contemptuous  sneer 
of  self-sufficient  folly.  The  collector  of  shells  and  the 
anatomist  of  insects  is  little  inclined  to  enter  into  theo- 
logical disputes :  the  divine  is  not  apt  to  regard  with 
veneration  the  uncouth  diagrams  and  tedious  calcula- 
tions of  the  astronomer :  the  man  whose  life  has  been 
consumed  in  adjusting  the  disputes  of  lexicographers,  or 


182  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

elucidating  the  learning  of  antiquity,  cannot  easily  bend 
his  thoughts  to  recent  transactions,  or  readily  interest 
himself  in  the  unimportant  history  of  his  contempora- 
ries :  and  the  cit,  who  knows  no  business  but  acquiring 
wealth,  and  no  pleasure  but  displaying  it,  has  a  heart 
equally  shut  up  to  argument  and  fancy,  to  the  bat- 
teries of  syllogism  and  the  arrows  of  wit.  To  the  writer 
of  fiction  alone  every  ear  is  open  and  every  tongue 
lavish  of  applause :  curiosity  sparkles  in  every  eye,  and 
every  bosom  is  throbbing  with  concern. 

It  is,  however,  easy  to  account  for  this  enchantment. 
To  follow  the  chain  of  perplexed  ratiocination,  to  review 
with  critical  skill  the  airy  architecture  of  systems,  to 
unravel  the  web  of  sophistry,  or  weigh  the  merits  of 
opposite  hypotheses,  requires  perspicacity,  and  pre-sup- 
poses  learning.  Works  of  this  kind,  therefore,  are  not 
so  well  adapted  to  the  generality  of  readers  as  familiar 
and  colloquial  composition ;  for  few  can  reason,  but  all 
can  feel ;  and  many  who  cannot  enter  into  any  argu- 
ment may  yet  listen  to  a  tale.  The  writer  of  romance 
has  even  an  advantage  over  those  who  endeavor  to 
amuse  by  the  play  of  fancy ;  who,  from  the  fortuitous 
collision  of  dissimilar  ideas,  produce  the  scintillations 
of  wit,  or  by  the  vivid  glow  of  poetical  imagery  delight 
the  imagination  with  colors  of  ideal  radiance.  The 
attraction  of  the  magnet  is  only  exerted  upon  similar 
particles  ;  and  to  taste  the  beauties  of  Homer  it  is  requi- 


ON   ROMANCES.  183 

site  to  partake  his  fire ;  but  every  one  can  relish  the 
author  who  represents  common  life,  because  every  one 
can  refer  to  the  originals  from  whence  his  ideas  were 
taken.  He  relates  events  to  which  all  are  liable,  and 
applies  to  passions  which  all  have  felt.  The  gloom  of 
solitude,  the  languor  of  inaction,  the  corrosions  of  dis- 
appointment, and  the  toil  of  thought,  induce  men  to 
step  aside  from  the  rugged  road  of  life,  and  wander  in 
the  fairy  land  of  fiction,  where  every  bank  is  sprinkled 
with  flowers,  and  every  gale  loaded  with  perfume ;  where 
every  event  introduces  a  hero,  and  every  cottage  is  in- 
habited by  a  Grace.  Invited  by  these  flattering  scenes, 
the  student  quits  the  investigation  of  truth,  in  which  he 
perhaps  meets  with  no  less  fallacy,  to  exhilarate  his 
mind  with  new  ideas,  more  agreeable,  and  more  easily 
attained :  the  busy  relax  their  attention  by  desultory 
reading,  and  smooth  the  agitation  of  a  ruffled  mind  with 
images  of  peace,  tranquillity,  and  pleasure :  the  idle  and 
the  gay  relieve  the  listlessness  of  leisure,  and  diversify 
the  round  of  life  by  a  rapid  series  of  events  pregnaut 
with  rapture  and  astonishment ;  and  the  pensive  solitary 
fills  up  the  vacuities  of  his  heart  by  interesting  himself 
in  the  fortunes  of  imaginary  beings,  and  forming  con- 
nections with  ideal  excellence. 

It  is,  indeed,  no  ways  extraordinary  that  the  mind 
should  be  charmed  by  fancy  and  attracted  by  pleasure ; 
but  that  we   should  listen  with  complacence  to  the 


184  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

groans  of  misery  and  delight  to  view  the  exacerbations 
of  complicated  anguish,  that  we  should  choose  to  chill 
the  bosom  with  imaginary  fears  and  dim  the  eyes  with 
fictitious  sorrow,  seems  a  kind  of  paradox  of  the  heart, 
and  can  only  be  credited  because  it  is  universally  felt. 
Various  are  the  hypotheses  which  have  been  found  to 
account  for  the  disposition  of  the  mind  to  riot  in  this 
species  of  intellectual  luxury.  Some  have  imagined 
that  we  are  induced  to  acquiesce  with  greater  patience 
in  our  own  lot  by  beholding  pictures  of  life  tinged  with 
deeper  horrors,  and  loaded  with  more  excruciating  calam- 
ities ;  as  to  a  person  suddenly  emerging  out  of  a  dark 
room  the  faintest  glimmering  of  twilight  assumes  a  lus- 
tre from  the  contrasted  gloom.  Others,  with  yet  deeper 
refinement,  suppose  that  we  take  upon  ourselves  this 
burden  of  adscititious  sorrows,  in  order  to  feast  upon 
the  consciousness  of  our  own  virtue.  We  commiserate 
others,  say  they,  that  we  may  applaud  ourselves ;  and 
the  sigh  of  compassionate  sympathy  is  always  followed 
by  the  gratulations  of  self-complacent  esteem.  But 
surely  they  who  would  thus  reduce  the  sympathetic 
emotions  of  pity  to  a  system  of  refined  selfishness  have 
but  ill  attended  to  the  genuine  feelings  of  humanity. 
It  would,  however,  exceed  the  limits  of  this  paper 
should  I  attempt  an  accurate  investigation  of  these  sen- 
timents. But  let  it  be  remembered  that  we  are  more 
attracted  by  those  scenes  which  interest  our  passions, 


ON   ROMANCES.  185 

or  gratify  our  curiosity,  than  those  which  delight  our 
fancy ;  and,  so  far  from  being  indifferent  to  the  miseries 
of  others,  we  are,  at  the  time,  totally  regardless  of  our 
own.  And  let  not  those  on  whom  the  hand  of  Time 
has  impressed  the  characters  of  oracular  wisdom  cen- 
sure with  too  much  acrimony  productions  which  are 
thus  calculated  to  please  the  imagination  and  interest 
the  heart.  They  teach  us  to  think,  by  inuring  us  to 
feel :  they  ventilate  the  mind  by  sudden  gusts  of  pas- 
sion, and  prevent  the  stagnation  of  thought  by  a  fresh 
infusion  of  dissimilar  ideas. 


186  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


AN  INQUIRY  INTO   THOSE  KINDS  OF  DISTRESS 
WHICH  EXCITE  AGREEABLE  SENSATIONS. 


WITH   A   TALE. 


IT  is  undoubtedly  true,  though  a  phenomenon  of  the 
human  mind  difficult  to  account  for,  that  the 
representation  of  distress  frequently  gives  pleasure; 
from  which  general  observation  many  of  our  modern 
writers  of  tragedy  and  romance  seem  to  have  drawn 
this  inference, —  that,  in  order  to  please,  they  have 
nothing  more  to  do  than  to  paint  distress  in  natural 
and  striking  colors.  With  this  view,  they  heap  together 
all  the  afflicting  events  and  dismal  accidents  their 
imagination  can  furnish;  and  when  they  have  half 
broke  the  reader's  heart,  they  expect  he  should  thank 
them  for  his  agreeable  entertainment.  An  author  of 
this  class  sits  down,  pretty  much  like  an  inquisitor,  to 
compute  how  much  suffering  he  can  inflict  upon  the 
hero  of  his  tale  before  he  makes  an  end  of '  him  ;  with 
this  difference,  indeed,  that  the  inquisitor  only  tortures 
those  who  are  at  least  reputed  criminals,  whereas  the 
writer  generally  chooses  the  most  excellent  character  in 
his  piece  for  the  subject  of  his  persecution.     The  great 


AN   INQUIRY.  187 

criterion  of  excellence  is  placed  in  being  able  to  draw 
tears  plentifully ;  and  concluding  we  shall  weep  the 
more,  the  more  the  picture  is  loaded  with  doleful  events, 
they  go  on,  telling 

"  ....  of  sorrows  upon  sorrows 
Even  to  a  lamentable  length  of  woe." 

A  monarch  once  proposed  a  reward  for  the  discovery 
of  a  new  pleasure ;  but  if  any  one  could  find  out  a  new 
torture,  or  nondescript  calamity,  he  would  be  more 
entitled  to  the  applause  of  those  who  fabricate  books 
of  entertainment. 

But  the  springs  of  pity  require  to  be  touched  with  a 
more  delicate  hand ;  and  it  is  far  from  being  true  that 
we  are  agreeably  affected  by  everything  that  excites 
our  sympathy.  It  shall  therefore  be  the  business  of 
this  essay  to  distinguish  those  kinds  of  distress  which 
are  pleasing  in  the  representation  from  those  which  are 
really  painful  and  disgusting. 

The  view  or  relation  of  mere  misery  can  never  be 
pleasing.  We  have,  indeed,  a  strong  sympathy  with 
all  kinds  of  misery ;  but  it  is  a  feeling  of  pure,  unmixed 
pain,  similar  in  kind,  though  not  equal  in  degree,  to 
what  we  feel  for  ourselves  on  the  like  occasions ;  and 
never  produces  that  melting  sorrow,  that  thrill  of 
tenderness,  to  which  we  give  the  name  of  pity.  They 
are  two  distinct  sensations,  marked  by  very  different 
external  expression.     One  causes  the  nerves  to  tingle, 


188  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  flesh  to  shudder,  and  the  whole  countenance  to  be 
thrown  into  strong  contractions  :  the  other  relaxes  the 
frame,  opens  the  features,  and  produces  tears.  When 
we  crush  a  noxious  or  loathsome  animal,  we  may  sym- 
pathize strongly  with  the  pain  it  suffers,  but  with  far 
different  emotions  from  the  tender  sentiment  we  feel 
for  the  dog  of  Ulysses,  who  crawled  to  meet  his  long- 
lost  master,  looked  up,  and  died  at  his  feet.  Extreme 
bodily  pain  is  perhaps  the  most  intense  suffering  we  are 
capable  of,  and  if  the  fellow-feeling  with  misery  alone 
was  grateful  to  the  mind,  the  exhibition  of  a  man  in  a 
fit  of  the  toothache,  or  under  a  chirurgical  operation, 
would  have  a  fine  effect  in  a  tragedy.  But  there  must 
be  some  other  sentiment  combined  with  this  kind  of  in- 
stinctive sympathy  before  it  becomes  in  any  degree 
pleasing,  or  produces  the  sweet  emotion  of  pity.  This 
sentiment  is  love,  esteem,  the  complacency  we  take  in 
the  contemplation  of  beauty,  of  mental  or  moral  excel- 
lence, called  forth  and  rendered  more  interesting  by 
circumstances  of  pain  and  danger.  Tenderness  is,  much 
more  properly  than  sorrow,  the  spring  of  tears ;  for  it 
affects  us  in  that  manner,  whether  combined  with  joy  or 
grief;  perhaps  more  in  the  former  case  than  the  latter. 
And  I  believe  we  may  venture  to  assert,  that  no  distress 
which  produces  tears  is  wholly  without  a  mixture  of 
pleasure.  When  Joseph's  brethren  were  sent  to  buy 
corn,  if  they  had  perished  in  the  desert  by  wild  beasts, 


AN   INQUIRY.  139 

or  been  reduced  (as  in  the  horrid  adventures  of  a  Pierre 
de  Yaud)  to  eat  one  another,  we  might  have  shuddered, 
but  we  should  not  have  wept  for  them.  The  gush  of 
tears  breaks  forth  when  Joseph  made  himself  known 
to  his  brethren,  and  fell  on  their  neck,  and  kissed 
them.  When  Hubert  prepares  to  burn  out  Prince 
Arthur's  eyes,  the  shocking  circumstance,  of  itself, 
would  only  affect  us  with  horror:  it  is  the  amiable 
simplicity  of  the  young  prince,  and  his  innocent  affec- 
tion to  his  intended  murderer,  that  draws  our  tears,  and 
excites  that  tender  sorrow  which  we  love  to  feel,  and 
which  refines  the  heart  while  we  do  feel  it. 

We  see,  therefore,  from  this  view  of  our  internal 
feelings,  that  no  scenes  of  misery  ought  to  be  exhibited 
which  are  not  connected  with  the  display  of  some  moral 
excellence  or  agreeable  quality.  If  fortitude,  power, 
and  strength  of  mind  are  called  forth,  they  produce 
the  sublime  feelings  of  wonder  and  admiration :  if  the 
softer  qualities  of  gentleness,  grace,  and  beauty,  they 
inspire  love  and  pity.  The  management  of  these  latter 
emotions  is  our  present  object. 

And  let  it  be  remembered,  in  the  first  place,  that  the 
misfortunes  which  excite  pity  must  not  be  too  horrid  and 
overwhelming.  The  mind  is  rather  stunned  than  soft- 
ened by  great  calamities.  They  are  little  circumstances 
that  work  most  sensibly  upon  the  tender  feelings.  For 
this  reason  a  well-written  novel  generally  draws  more 


. 


190  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

tears  than  a  tragedy.  The  distresses  of  tragedy  are 
more  calculated  to  amaze  and  terrify  than  to  move 
compassion.  Battles,  torture,  and  death  are  in  every 
page.  The  dignity  of  the  characters,  the  importance 
of  the  events,  the  pomp  of  verse  and  imagery,  interest 
the  grander  passions,  and  raise  the  mind  to  an  enthusi- 
asm little  favorable  to  the  weak  and  languid  notes  of 
pity.  The  tragedies  of  Young  are  in  a  fine  strain  of 
poetry,  and  the  situations  are  worked  up  with  great 
energy ;  but  the  pictures  are  in  too  deep  a  shade :  all 
his  pieces  are  full  of  violent  and  gloomy  passions,  and 
so  overwrought  with  horror,  that,  instead  of  awakening 
any  pleasing  sensibility,  they  leave  on  the  mind  an 
impression  of  sadness  mixed  with  terror.  Shakespeare 
is  sometimes  guilty  of  presenting  scenes  too  shocking. 
Such  is  the  trampling  out  of  Gloster's  eyes,  and  such 
is  the  whole  play  of  Titus  Andronicus.  But  Lee, 
beyond  all  others,  abounds  with  this  kind  of  images. 
He  delighted  in  painting  the  most  daring  crimes  and 
cruel  massacres;  and  though  he  has  shown  himself 
extremely  capable  of  raising  tenderness,  he  continually 
checks  its  course  by  shocking  and  disagreeable  expres- 
sions. His  pieces  are  in  the  same  taste  with  the 
pictures  of  Spagnolet,  and  there  are  many  scenes  in  his 
tragedies  winch  no  one  can  relish  who  would  not  look 
with  pleasure  on  the  flaying  of  St.  Bartholomew.  The 
following   speech    of  Marguerite,  in   the   Massacre  of 


AN   INQUIRY.  191 

Paris,  was,  I  suppose,  intended  to  express  the  utmost 
tenderness  of  affection. 

"  Die  for  him  !  that 's  too  little  ;  I  could  burn 
Piecemeal  away,  or  bleed  to  death  by  drops, 
Be  flayed  alive,  then  broke  upon  the  wheel, 
Yet  with  a  smile  endure  it  all  for  Guise  : 
And  when  let  loose  from  torments,  all  one  wound, 
Run  with  my  mangled  arms  and  crush  him  dead." 

Images  like  these  will  never  excite  the  softer  passions. 
We  are  less  moved  -at  the  description  of  an  Indian 
tortured  with  all  the  dreadful  ingenuity  of  that  savage 
people,  than  with  the  fatal  mistake  of  the  lover  in  the 
Spectator,  who  pierced  an  artery  in  the  arm  of  his 
mistress  as  he  was  letting  her  blood.  Tragedy  and 
romance  writers  are  likewise  apt  to  make  too  free  with 
the  more  violent  expressions  of  passion  and  distress,  by 
which  means  they  lose  their  effect.  Thus  an  ordinary 
author  does  not  know  how  to  express  any  strong  emo- 
tion otherwise  than  by  swoonings  or  death ;  so  that  a 
person  experienced  in  this  kind  of  reading,  when  a  girl 
faints  away  at  parting  with  her  lover,  or  a  hero  kills 
himself  for  the  loss  of  his  mistress,  considers  it  as  the 
established  etiquette  upon  such  occasions,  and  turns 
over  the  pages  with  the  utmost  coolness  and  unconcern; 
whereas  real  sensibility,  and  a  more  intimate  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  would  have  suggested  a  thousand  lit- 
tle touches  of  grief,  which,  though  slight,  are  irresistible. 


192  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

We  are  too  gloomy  a  people.  Some  of  the  French  novels 
are  remarkable  for  little  affecting  incidents,  imagined 
with  delicacy  and  told  with  grace.  Perhaps  they  have 
a  better  turn  than  we  have  for  this  kind  of  writing. 

A  judicious  author  will  never  attempt  to  raise  pity 
by  anything  mean  or  disgusting.  As  we  have  already 
observed,  there  must  be  a  degree  of  complacence  mixed 
with  our  sorrows  to  produce  an  agreeable  sympathy; 
nothing,  therefore,  must  be  admitted  which  destroys 
the  grace  and  dignity  of  suffering ;  the  imagination 
must  have  an  amiable  figure  to  dwell  upon ;  there  are 
circumstances  so  ludicrous  and  disgusting,  that  no 
character  can  preserve  a  proper  decorum  under  them, 
or  appear  in  an  agreeable  light.  Who  can  read  the 
following  description  of  Polypheme  without  finding 
his  compassion  entirely  destroyed  by  aversion  and 
loathing  ? 

"  .  .  .  .  His  bloody  hand 
Snatched  two  unhappy  of  my  martial  band, 
And  dashed  like  dogs  against  the  stony  floor, 
The  pavement  swims  with  brains  and  mingled  gore  ; 
Torn  limb  from  limb,  he  spreads  his  horrid  feast, 
And  fierce  devours  it  like  a  mountain  beast ; 
He  sucks  the  marrow,  and  the  blood  he  drains, 
Nor  entrails,  flesh,  nor  solid  bone  remains." 

Or  that  of  Scylla,  — 

"In  the  wide  dungeon  she  devours  her  food, 
And  the  flesh  trembles  while  she  churns  the  blood. " 


AN   INQUIRY.  193 

Deformity  is  always  disgusting,  and  the  imagination 
cannot  reconcile  it  with  the  idea  of  a  favorite  character ; 
therefore  the  poet  and  romance-writer  are  fully  justified 
in  giving  a  larger  share  of  beauty  to  their  principal 
figures  than  is  usually  met  with  in  common  life.  A 
late  genius,  indeed,  in  a  whimsical  mood,  gave  us  a  lady 
with  her  nose  crushed  for  the  heroine  of  his  story ;  but 
the  circumstance  spoils  the  picture ;  and  though  in  the 
course  of  the  story  it  is  kept  a  good  deal  out  of  sight, 
whenever  it  does  occur  to  the  imagination  we  are  hurt 
and  disgusted.  It  was  an  heroic  instance  of  virtue  in 
the  nuns  of  a  certain  abbey,  who  cut  off  their  noses  and 
lips  to  avoid  violation ;  yet  this  would  make  a  very  bad 
subject  for  a  poem  or  a  play.  Something  akin  to  this 
is  the  representation  of  anything  unnatural,  of  which 
kind  is  the  famous  story  of  the  Eoman  charity ;  and  for 
this  reason  I  cannot  but  think  it  an  unpleasing  subject 
for  either  the  pen  or  the  pencil. 

Poverty,  if  truly  represented,  shocks  our  nicer  feel- 
ings ;  therefore,  whenever  it  is  made  use  of  to  awaken 
our  compassion,  the  rags  and  dirt,  the  squalid  appear- 
ance and  mean  employments  incident  to  that  state, 
must  be  kept  out  of  sight,  and  the  distress  must  arise 
from  the  idea  of  depression,  and  the  shock  of  falling 
from  higher  fortunes.  We  do  not  pity  Belisarius  as  a 
poor,  blind  beggar ;  and  a  painter  would  succeed  very 
ill  who  should  sink  him  to  the  meanness  of  that  condi- 

VOL.    II.  9  M 


194  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

tion.  He  must  let  us  still  discover  the  conqueror  of  the 
Vandals,  the  general  of  the  imperial  armies,  or  we  shall 
be  little  interested.  Let  us  look  at  the  picture  of  the 
old  woman  of  Otway  :  — 

"  ....  A  wrinkled  hag  with  age  grown  double, 
Picking  dry  sticks,  and  muttering  to  herself ; 
•     Her  eyes  with  scalding  rheum  were  galled  and  red  ; 
Cold  palsy  shook  her  head  ;  her  hands  seemed  withered ; 
And  on  her  crooked  shoulder  had  she  wrapt 
The  tattered  remnant  of  an  old  striped  hanging, 
Which  served  to  keep  her  carcass  from  the  cold  ; 
So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her." 

Here  is  the  extreme  of  wretchedness,*  and  instead  of 
melting  into  pity,  we  should  turn  away  with  disgust,  if 
we  were  not  pleased  with  it,  as  we  are  with  a  Dutch 
painting,  from  the  exact  imitation  of  nature.  Indeed, 
the  author  only  intended  it  to  strike  horror.  But  how 
different  are  the  sentiments  we  feel  for  the  lovely  Bel- 
videra  !  \Ye  see  none  of  those  circumstances  which  ren- 
der poverty  an  unamiable  thing.  When  the  goods  are 
seized  by  an  execution,  our  attention  is  turned  to  the 
piles  of  massy  plate,  and  all  the  ancient,  most  domestic 
ornaments,  which  imply  grandeur  and  consequence;  or 
to  such  instances  of  their  hard  fortune  as  will  lead  us  to 
pity  them  as  lovers.  "We  are  struck  and  affected  with  the 
general  face  of  ruin  ;  but  we  are  not  brought  near  enough 
to  discern  the  ugliness  of  its  features.  Belvidera  ruined, 
Belvidera  deprived  of  friends,  without  a  home,  aban- 


AN  INQUIRY.  195 

doned  to  the  wide  world,  —  we  can  contemplate  with 
all  the  pleasing  sympathy  of  pity;  but  had  she  been 
represented  as  really  sunk  into  low  life,  had  we  seen 
her  employed  in  the  most  servile  offices  of  poverty,  our 
compassion  would  have  given  way  to  contempt  and  dis- 
gust. Indeed,  we  may  observe  in  real  life  that  poverty 
is  only  pitied  so  long  as  people  can  keep  themselves 
from  the  effects  of  it.  When  in  common  language  we 
say  a  miserable  object,  we  mean  an  object  of  distress 
which,  if  we  relieve,  we  turn  away  from  at  the  same 
time.  To  make  pity  pleasing,  the  object  of  it  must  not 
in  any  view  be*  disagreeable  to  the  imagination.  How 
admirably  has  the  author  of  "  Clarissa  "  managed  this 
point !  Amidst  scenes  of  suffering  which  rend  the  heart, 
in  poverty,  in  a  prison,  under  the  most  shocking  outrages, 
the  grace  and  delicacy  of  her  character  never  suffers 
even  for  a  moment :  there  seems  to  be  a  charm  about 
her  which  prevents  her  receiving  a  stain  from  anything 
which  happens ;  and  Clarissa,  abandoned  and  undone, 
is  the  object  not  only  of  complacence  but  veneration. 

I  would  likewise  observe,  that  if  an  author  would 
have  us  feel  a  strong  degree  of  compassion,  his  charac- 
ters must  not  be  too  perfect.  The  stern  fortitude  and 
inflexible  resolution  of  a  Cato  may  command  esteem, 
but  does  not  excite  tenderness ;  and  faultless  rectitude 
of  conduct,  though  no  rigor  be  mixed  with  it,  is  of  too 
sublime  a  nature  to  inspire  compassion.     Virtue  has  a 


196  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

kind  of  self-sufficiency ;  it  stands  upon  its  own  basis, 
and  cannot  be  injured  by  any  violence.  It  must  there- 
fore be  mixed  with  something  of  helplessness  and  im- 
perfection, with  an  excessive  sensibility  or  a  simplicity 
bordering  upon  weakness,  before  it  raises,  in  any  great 
degree,  either  tenderness  or  familiar  love.  If  there  be  a 
fault  in  the  masterly  performance  just  now  mentioned, 
it  is  that  the  character  of  Clarissa  is  so  inflexibly  right, 
her  passions  are  under  such  perfect  command,  and  her 
prudence  is  so  equal  to  every  occasion,  that  she  seems 
not  to  need  that  sympathy  we  should  bestow  upon  one 
of  a  less  elevated  character ;  and  perhaps. we  should  feel 
a  livelier  emotion  of  tenderness  for  the  innocent  girl 
whom  Lovelace  calls  his  Eose-bud,  but  that  the  story 
of  Clarissa  is  so  worked  up  by  the  strength  of  coloring, 
and  the  force  of  repeated  impressions,  as  to  command 
all  our  sorrow. 

Pity  seems  too  degrading  a  sentiment  to  be  offered  at 
the  shrine  of  faultless  excellence.  The  sufferings  of 
martyrs  are  rather  beheld  with  admiration  and  sym- 
pathetic triumph  than  with  tears ;  and  we  never  feel 
much  for  those  whom  we  consider  as  themselves  raised 
above  common  feelings. 

The  last  rule  I  shall  insist  upon  is,  that  scenes  of 
distress  should  not  be  too  long  continued.  All  our 
finer  feelings  are  in  a  manner  momentary,  and  no  art 
can  carry  them  beyond  a  certain  point,  either  in  intense- 


AN   INQUIRY.  197 

ness  or  duration.  Constant  suffering  deadens  the  heart 
to  tender  impressions  ;  as  we  may  observe  in  sailors  and 
others  who  are  grown  callous  by  a  life  of  continual 
hardships.  It  is  therefore  highly  necessary,  in  a  long 
work,  to  relieve  the  mind  by  scenes  of  pleasure  and 
gayety ;  and  I  cannot  think  it  so  absurd  a  practice  as 
our  modern  delicacy  has  represented  it,  to  intermix  wit 
and  fancy  with  the  pathetic,  provided  care  be  taken  not 
to  check  the  passions  while  they_  are  flowing.  The 
transition  from  a  pleasurable  state  of  mind  to  tender 
sorrow  is  not  so  difficult  as  we  imagine.  When  the 
mind  is  opened  by  gay  and  agreeable  scenes,  every  im- 
pression is  felt  more  sensibly.  Persons  of  a  lively  tem- 
per are  much  more  susceptible  of  that  sudden  swell  of 
sensibility  which  occasions  tears,  than  those  of  a  grave 
and  saturnine  cast ;  for  this  reason  women  are  more 
easily  moved  to  weeping  than  men.  Those  who  have 
touched  the  springs  of  pity  with  the  finest  hand,  have 
mingled  light  strokes  of  pleasantry  and  mirth  in  their 
most  pathetic  passages.  Yery  different  is  the  conduct 
of  many  novel- writers,  who,  by  plunging  us  into  scenes 
of  distress  without  end  or  limit,  exhaust  the  powers, 
and  before  the  conclusion  either  render  us  insensible  to 
everything,  or  fix  a  real  sadness  upon  the  mind.  The 
uniform  style  of  tragedies  is  one  reason  why  they  affect 
so  little.  In  our  old  plays  all  the  force  of  language  is 
reserved  for  the  more  interesting  parts ;  and  in  scenes 


198  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

of  common  life  there  is  no  attempt  to  rise  above  com- 
mon language ;  whereas  we,  by  that  pompous  manner 
and  affected  solemnity  which  we  think  it  necessary  to 
preserve  through  the  whole  piece,  lose  the  force  of  an 
elevated  or  passionate  expression  where  the  occasion 
•really  suggests  it. 

Having  thus  considered  the  manner  in  which  ficti- 
tious distress  must  be  managed  to  render  it  pleasing, 
let  us  reflect  a  little  upon  the  moral  tendency  of  such 
representations.  Much  has  been  said  in  favor  of  them, 
and  they  are  generally  thought  to  improve  the  tender 
and  humane  feelings ;  but  this,  I  own,  appears  to  me 
very  dubious.  That  they  exercise  sensibility  is  true ; 
but  sensibility  does  not  increase  with  exercise.  By  the 
constitution  of  our  frame  our  habits  increase,  our  emo- 
tions decrease,  by  repeated  acts  ;  and  thus  a  wise  pro- 
vision is  made,  that,  as  our  compassion  grows  weaker, 
its  place  should  be  supplied  by  habitual  benevolence. 
But  in  these  writings  our  sensibility  is  strongly  called 
forth  without  any  possibility  of  exerting  itself  in  virtu- 
ous action,  and  those  emotions  which  we  shall  never 
feel  again  with  equal  force  are  wasted  without  advan- 
tage. Nothing  is  more  dangerous  than  to  let  virtuous 
impressions  of  any  kind  pass  through  the  mind  without 
producing  their  proper  effect.  The  awakenings  of  re- 
morse, virtuous  shame  and  indignation,  the  glow  of 
moral  approbation,  —  if  they  do  not  lead  to  action,  grow 


AN   INQUIRY.  199 

less  and  less  vivid  every  time  they  recur,  till  at  length 
the  mind  grows  absolutely  callous.  The  being  affected 
with  a  pathetic  story  is  undoubtedly  a  sign  of  an  amia- 
ble disposition,  but  perhaps  no  means  of  increasing  it. 
On  the  contrary,  young  people,  by  a  course  of  this  kind 
of  reading,  often  acquire  something  of  that  apathy  and 
indifference  which  the  experience  of  real  life  would  have 
given  them,  without  its  advantages. 

Another  reason  why  plays  and  romances  do  not  im- 
prove our  humanity  is,  that  they  lead  us  to  require  a 
certain  elegance  of  manners  and  delicacy  of  virtue  which 
is  not  often  found  with  poverty,  ignorance,  and  mean- 
ness. The  objects  of  pity  in  romance  are  as  different 
from  those  in  real  life  as  our  husbandmen  from  the 
shepherds  of  Arcadia  ;  and  a  girl  who  will  sit  weeping 
the  wThole  night  at  the  delicate  distresses  of  a  lady 
Charlotte,  or  lady  Julia,  shall  be  little  moved  at  the 
complaint  of  her  neighbor,  who,  in  a  homely  phrase  and 
vulgar  accent,  laments  to  her  that  she  is  not  able  to  get 
bread  for  her  family.  Eomance-writers  likewise  make 
great  misfortunes  so  familiar  to  our  ears,  that  wre  have 
hardly  any  pity  to  spare  for  the  common  accidents  of 
life ;  but  we  ought  to  remember  that  misery  has  a  claim 
to  relief,  however  we  may  be  disgusted  with  its  appear- 
ance ;  and  that  we  must  not  fancy  ourselves  charitable, 
when  we  are  only  pleasing  our  imagination. 

It  would  perhaps  be  better  if   our  romances  were 


200  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARRAULD. 

more  like  those  of  the  old  stamp,  which  tended  to  raise 
human  nature,  and  inspire  a  certain  grace  and  dignity 
of  manners  of  which  we  have  hardly  the  idea.  The 
high  notions  of  honor,  the  wild  and  fanciful  spirit  of 
adventure  and  romantic  love,  elevated  the  mind  :  our 
novels  tend  to  depress  and  enfeeble  it.  Yet  there  is  a 
species  of  this  kind  of  writing  which  must  ever  afford 
an  exquisite  pleasure  to  persons  of  taste  and  sensibility ; 
where  noble  sentiments  are  mixed  with  well-fancied 
incidents,  pathetic  touches  with  dignity  and  grace,  and 
invention  with  chaste  correctness.  Such  will  ever  inter- 
est our  sweetest  passions.  I  shall  conclude  this  paper 
with  the  following  tale. 


In  the  happy  period  of  the  Golden  Age,  when  all  the 
celestial  inhabitants  descended  to  the  earth  and  con- 
versed familiarly  with  mortals,  among  the  most  cher- 
ished of  the  heavenly  powers  were  twins,  the  offspring 
of  Jupiter,  Love  and  Joy.  Where  they  appeared,  the 
flowers  sprung  up  beneath  their  feet,  the  sun  shone 
with  a  brighter  radiance,  and  all  nature  seemed  embel- 
lished by  their  presence.  They  were  inseparable  com- 
panions, and  their  growing  attachment  was  favored  by 
Jupiter,  who  had  decreed  that  a  lasting  union  should 
be  solemnized  between  them  as  soon  as  they  were 
arrived  at  maturer  years.     But  in  the  mean  time  the 


AN   INQUIRY.  201 

sons  of  men  deviated  from  their  native  innocence  ;  vice 
and  ruin  overran  the  earth  with  giant  strides ;  and 
Astrea,  with  her  train  of  celestial  visitants,  forsook 
their  polluted  abodes.  Love  alone  remained,  having 
been  stolen  away  by  Hope,  who  was  his  nurse,  and 
conveyed  by  her  to  the  forest  of  Arcadia,  where  he  was 
brought  up  among  the  shepherds.  But  Jupiter  assigned 
him  a  different  partner,  and  commanded  him  to  espouse 
Sorrow,  the  daughter  of  Ate.  He  complied  with  reluc- 
tance; for  her  features  were  harsh  and  disagreeable, 
her  eyes  sunk,  her  forehead  contracted  into  perpetual 
wrinkles,  and  her  temples  were  covered  with  a  wreath 
of  cypress  and  wormwood,  from  this  union  sprung  a 
virgin  in  whom  might  be  traced  a  strong  resemblance 
to  both  her  parents;  but  the  sullen  and  unamiable 
features  of  her  mother  were  so  mixed  and  blended  with 
the  sweetness  of  her  father,  that  her  countenance, 
though  mournful,  was  highly  pleasing.  The  maids  and 
shepherds  of  the  neighboring  plains  gathered  round, 
and  called  her  Pity.  A  redbreast  was  observed  to  build 
in  the  cabin  where  she  was  born ;  and  while  she  was 
yet  an  infant,  a  dove  pursued  by  a  hawk  flew  into  her 
bosom.  This  nymph  had  a  dejected  appearance,  but 
so  soft  and  gentle  a  mien  that  she  was  beloved  to  a 
degree  of  enthusiasm.  Her  voice  was  low  and  plaintive, 
but  inexpressibly  sweet ;  and  she  loved  to  lie  for  hours 
together  on  the  banks  of  some  wild  and  melancholy 

9* 


L 


202 


WORKS   OF  MRS.    BARBAULD. 


stream,  singing  to  her  lute.  She  taught  men  to  weep, 
for  she  took  a  strange  delight  in  tears ;  and  often, 
when  the  virgins  of  the  hamlet  were  assembled  at  their 
evening  sports,  she  would  steal  in  amongst  them,  and 
captivate  their  hearts  by  her  tales  full  of  a  charming 
sadness.  She  wore  on  her  head  a  garland  composed  of 
her  father's  myrtles  twisted  with  her  mother's  cypress. 

One  day,  as  she  sat  musing  by  the  waters  of  Helicon, 
her  tears  by  chance  fell  into  the  fountain;  and  ever 
since  the  Muse's  spring  has  retained  a  strong  taste  of 
the  infusion.  Pity  was  commanded  by  Jupiter  to  follow 
the  steps  of  her  mother  through  the  world,  dropping 
balm  into  the  wounds  slie  made,  and  binding  up  the 
hearts  she  had  broken.  She  follows  with  her  hair  loose, 
her  bosom  bare  and  throbbing,  her  garments  torn  by 
the  briers,  and  her  feet  bleeding  with  the  roughness  of 
the  path.  The  nymph  is  mortal,  for  her  mother  is  so  ; 
and  when  she  has  fulfilled  her  destined  course  upon 
the  earth,  they  shall  both  expire  together,  and  Love  be 
again  united  to  Joy,  his  immortal  and  long-betrothed 
bride. 


THE  CURE"  OF  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  RHONE.    203 


THE  CUKE  OE  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  EHONE. 


"WRITTEN  IN  1791. 


AFEIEND  of  mine,  who  pretends  to  have  very 
good  information  from  the  Continent,  commu- 
nicated to  me  the  following  account :  I  confess  it  comes 
in  a  shape  a  little  questionable;  however,  I  send 
it  to  you,  Mr.  Editor,  exactly  as  my  friend  read  it  to 
me  from  a  private  letter  which  he  said  he  had  just 
received. 

"  A  few  days  after  the  bishop  of  Paris  and  his  vicars 
had  set  the  example  of  renouncing  their  clerical  char- 
acter, a  cure  from  a  village  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone, 
followed  by  some  of  his  parishioners  with  an  offering 
of  gold  and  silver  saints,  chalices,  rich  vestments,  etc., 
presented  himself  at  the  bar  of  the  House.  The  sight 
of  the  gold  put  the  Convention  in  very  good  humor, 
and  the  cure,  a  thin,  venerable-looking  man  with  gray 
hairs,  was  ordered  to  speak.  '  I  come,'  said  he,  '  from 
the  village  of ,  where  the  only  good  building  stand- 
ing (for  the  chateau  has  been  pulled  down)  is  a  very 
fine  church;  my  parishioners  beg  you  will  take  it  to 
make  a  hospital  for  the  sick    and  wounded   of  both 


204  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

parties,  —  they  are  both  equally  our  countrymen :  the 
gold  and  silver,  part  of  which  we  have  brought  you, 
they  entreat  you  will  devote  to  the  service  of  the  state, 
and  that  you  will  cast  the  bells  into  cannon  to  drive 
away  its  foreign  invaders :  for  myself,  I  come  with 
great  pleasure  to  resign  my  letters  of  ordination,  of 
induction,  and  every  deed  and  title  by  which  I  have 
been  constituted  a  member  of  your  ecclesiastical  polity. 
Here  are  the  papers  ;  you  may  burn  them,  if  you  please, 
in  the  same  fire  with  the  genealogical  trees  and  patents 
of  the  nobility.  I  desire  likewise  that  you  will  dis- 
continue my  salary.  I  am  still  able  to  support  myself 
by  the  labor  of  my  hands,  and  I  beg  of  you  to  believe 
that  I  never  felt  sincerer  joy  than  I  now  do  in  making 
this  renunciation.  I  have  longed  to  see  this  day:  I 
see  it,  and  am  glad.' 

"  When  the  old  man  had  done  speaking,  the  applauses 
were  immoderate.  '  You  are  an  honest  man/  said  they 
all  at  once ;  '  you  are  a  brave  fellow ;  you  do  not 
believe  in  God ' ;  —  and  the  president  advanced  to  give 
him  the  fraternal  embrace.  The  cure  did  not  seem 
greatly  elated  with  these  tokens  of  approbation ;  he 
retired  back  a  few  steps,  and  thus  resumed  his  dis- 
course. '  Before  you  applaud  my  sentiments,  it  is  fit 
you  should  understand  them ;  perhaps  they  may  not 
entirely  coincide  with  your  own.  I  rejoice  in  this 
day,  not  because  I  wish  to  see  religion  degraded,  but 


THE  CURE*  OF  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  RHONE.    205 

because  I  wish  to  see  it  exalted  and  purified.  By  dis- 
solving its  alliance  with  the  state,  you  have  given  it 
dignity  and  independence.  You  have  done  it  a  piece 
of  service  which  its  well-wishers  would,  perhaps,  never 
have  had  courage  to  render  it,  but  which  is  the  only 
thing  wanted  to  make  it  appear  in  its  genuine  beauty 
and  lustre.  Nobody  will  now  say  of  me  that  I  am 
performing  the  offices  of  my  religion  as  a  trade ;  he  is 
paid  for  telling  the  people  such  and  such  things ;  he  is 
hired  to  keep  up  a  useless  piece  of  mummery.  They 
cannot  now  say  this,  and  therefore  I  feel  myself  raised 
in  my  own  esteem,  and  shall  speak  to  them  with  a  con- 
fidence and  frankness  which,  before  this,  I  never  durst 
venture  to  assume.  We  resign  without  reluctance  our 
gold  and  silver  images  and  embroidered  vestments,  be- 
cause we  have  never  found  that  gold  and  silver  made 
the  heart  more  pure  or  the  affections  more  heavenly; 
we  can  also  spare  our  churches,  for  the  heart  that 
wishes  to  lift  itself  up  to  God  will  never  be  at  a  loss 
for  room  to  do  it  in  ;  but  we  cannot  spare  our  religion, 
because,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  we  never  had  so  much  oc- 
casion for  it.  I  understand  that  you  accuse  us  priests 
of  having  told  the  people  a  great  many  falsehoods.  I 
suspect  this  may  have  been  the  case ;  but  till  this  day 
we  have  never  been  allowed  to  inquire  whether  the 
things  which  we  taught  them  were  true  or  not.  You 
required  us  formerly  to  receive  them  all  without  proof, 


206 


WORKS   OF  MRS.    BARBAULD. 


and  you  would  have  us  now  reject  them  all  without 
discrimination ;  neither  of  these  modes  of  conduct  be- 
come philosophers,  such  as  you  would  be  thought  to 
be.  I  am  going  to  employ  myself  diligently  along  with 
my  parishioners  to  sift  the  wheat  from  the  chaff,  the 
true  from  the  false ;  if  we  are  not  successful,  we  shall 
be  at  least  sincere.  I  do  fear,  indeed,  that  while  I 
wore  these  vestments  which  we  have  brought  you,  and 
spoke  in  that  gloomy  building  which  we  have  given  up 
to  you,  I  told  my  flock  a  great  many  idle  stories.  I 
cannot  but  hope,  however,  that  the  errors  we  have 
fallen  into  have  not  been  very  material,  since  the  village 
has  been  in  general  sober  and  good,  the  peasants  are 
honest,  ctocile,  and  laborious,  the  husbands  love  their 
wives  and  the  wives  their  husbands ;  they  are  fortu- 
nately not  too  rich  to  be  compassionate,  and  they  have 
constantly  relieved  the  sick  and  fugitives  of  all  parties 
whenever  it  has  lain  in  their  way.  I  think,  therefore, 
what  I  have  taught  them  cannot  be  so  very  much 
amiss.  You  want  to  extirpate  priests ;  but  will  you 
hinder  the  ignorant  from  applying  for  instruction,  the 
unhappy  for  comfort  and  hope,  the  unlearned  from 
looking  up  to  the  learned  ?  If  you  do  not,  you  will 
have  priests,  by  whatever  name  you  may  order  them 
to  be  called ;  but  it  certainly  is  not  necessary  they 
should  wear  a  particular  dress,  or  be  appointed  by  state- 
letters  of  ordination.     My  letters  of  ordination  are  my 


THE  CURE*  OF  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  RHONE.    207 

zeal,  my  charity,  my  ardent  love  for  my  dear  children 
of  the  village ;  if  I  were  more  learned,  I  would  add 
my  knowledge,  but  alas  !  we  all  know  very  little  ;  to 
man  every  error  is  pardonable  but  want  of  humility. 
We  have  a  public  walk  with  a  spreading  elm  at  the 
end  of  it,  and  a  circle  of  green  round  it,  with  a  con- 
venient bench.  Here  I  shall  draw  together  the  children 
as  they  are  playing  around  me.  I  shall  point  to  the 
vines  laden  with  fruit,  to  the  orchards,  to  the  herds  of 
cattle  lowing  around  us,  to  the  distant  hills  stretching 
one  behind  another ;  and  they  will  ask  me,  How  came 
all  these  things  ?  I  shall  tell  them  all  I  know  or  have 
heard  from  wise  men  who  have  lived  before  me ;  they 
will  be  penetrated  with  love  and  veneration ;  they  will 
kneel,  —  I  shall  kneel  with  them ;  they  will  not  be  at 
my  feet,  but  all  of  us  at  the  feet  of  that  good  Being 
whom  we  shall  worship  together;  and  thus  they  will 
receive  within  their  tender  minds  a  religion.  The  old 
men  will  come  sometimes  from  having  deposited  under 
the  green  sod  one  of  their  companions,  and  place  them- 
selves by  my  side ;  they  will  look  wistfully  at  the  turf, 
and  anxiously  inquire,  Is  he  gone  forever  ?  Shall  we 
soon  be  like  him  ?  Will  no  morning  break  over  the 
tomb  ?  When  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  will 
the  good  cease  from  doing  good  ?  We  will  talk  of  these 
things :  I  will  comfort  them.  I  will  tell  them  of  the 
goodness  of  God  \  I  will  speak  to  them  of  a  life  to 


208  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

come ;  I  will  bid  them  hope  for  a  state  of  retribution. 
In  a  clear  night,  when  the  stars  slide  over  our  heads, 
they  will  ask  what  these  bright  bodies  are,  and  by  what 
rules  they  rise  and  set.  And  we  will  converse  about 
different  forms  of  being,  and  distant  worlds  in  the 
immensity  of  space,  governed  by  the  same  laws,  till 
we  feel  our  minds  raised  from  what  is  grovelling,  and 
refined  from  what  is  sordid.  You  talk  of  Xature,  — 
this  is  Nature ;  and  if  you  could  at  this  moment  extin- 
guish religion  in  the  minds  of  the  world,  thus  would 
it  be  kindled  again,  and  thus  again  excite  the  curios- 
ity and  interest  the  feelings  of  mankind.  You  have 
changed  our  holidays ;  you  have  an  undoubted  right, 
as  our  civil  governors,  so  to  do ;  it  is  very  immaterial 
whether  they  are  kept  once  in  seven  days,  or  once  in 
ten  ;  some,  however,  you  will  leave  us,  and  when  they 
occur,  I  shall  tell  those  who  choose  to  hear  me,  of  the 
beauty  and  utility  of  virtue,  of  the  dignity  of  right 
conduct.  ^Ye  shall  talk  of  good  men  who  have  lived 
in  the  world,  and  of  the  doctrines  they  taught ;  and  if 
any  of  them  have  been  persecuted  and  put  to  death  for 
their  virtue,  we  shall  reverence  their  memories  the 
more.  —  I  hope  in  all  this  there  is  no  harm.  There  is  a 
book  out  of  which  I  have  sometimes  taught  my  people ; 
it  says  we  are  to  love  those  who  do  us  hurt,  and  to 
pour  oil  and  wine  into  the  wounds  of  the  stranger.  It 
has  enabled  my  children  to  bear  patiently  the  spoiling 


THE  CURE*  OF  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  RHONE.    209 

of  their  goods,  and  to  give  up  their  own  interest  for  the 
general  welfare.  I  think  it  cannot  be  a  very  bad  book, 
I  wish  more  of  it  had  been  read  in  your  town ;  perhaps 
you  would  not  have  had  quite  so  many  assassinations 
and  massacres.  In  this  book  we  hear  of  a  person  called 
Jesus.  Some  worship  him  as  a  God ;  others,  as  I  am 
told,  say  it  is  wrong  to  do  so.  —  Some  teach  that  he 
existed  from  the  beginning  of  ages ;  others,  that  he  was 
born  of  Joseph  and  Mary.  I  cannot  tell  whether  these 
controversies  will  ever  be  decided;  but  in  the  mean 
time  I  think  we  cannot  do  otherwise  than  well  in  imi- 
tating him ;  for  I  learn  that  he  loved  the  poor,  and  went 
about  doing  go  od. 

"  '  Fellow-citizens,  as  I  travelled  hither  from  my  own 
village,  I  saw  peasants  sitting  among  the  smoking  ruins 
of  their  cottages, — rich  men  and  women  reduced  to 
miserable  poverty  ;  fathers  lamenting  their  children  in 
the  bloom  and  pride  of  youth ;  and  I  said  to  myself, 
these  people  cannot  afford  to  part  with  their  religion. 
But  indeed  you  cannot  take  it  away ;  if,  contrary  to 
your  first  declaration,  you  choose  to  try  the  experiment 
of  persecuting  it,  you  will  only  make  us  prize  it  more 
and  love  it  better.  Eeligion,  true  or  false,  is  so  neces- 
sary to  the  mind  of  man,  that  even  you  have  begun  to 
make  yourselves  a  new  one.  You  are  sowing  the  seeds 
of  superstition ;  and  in  two  or  three  generations  your 
posterity  will  be  worshipping  some   clumsy  idol,  with 


210  WORKS   OF   MBS.    BAEBAULD. 

the  rites,  perhaps,  of  a  bloody  Moloch  or  a  lascivious 
Thammuz.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  have  been 
philosophers  and  destroyed  the  images  of  our  saints  for 
this ;  but  let  every  one  choose  the  religion  that  pleases 
him ;  I  and  my  parishioners  are.  content  with  ours,  — 
it  teaches  us  to  bear  the  evils  your  childish  or  sanguin- 
ary decrees  have  helped  to  bring  upon  the  country.' " 

The  cure  turned  his  footsteps  homeward,  and  the 
Convention  looked  for  some  minutes  on  one  another 
before  they  resumed  their  work  of  blood. 


ON   EVIL.  211 


ON    EVIL. 


A  RHAPSODY. 


OEVIL,  creature  abhorred  of  God  and  man ! 
whence  is  thy  origin  ?  how  did  so  deformed  and 
monstrous  a  birth  gain  entrance  into  the  fair  creation  ? 
Canst  thou  be  from  God,  —  since  thou  art  so  opposite 
to  his  nature  ?  And  if  from  man,  —  why  was  he 
suffered  to  produce  thee  ?  Weak,  unexperienced,  un- 
suspecting man,  —  why  was  he  permitted  to  bring  such 
enormous  ruin  on  his  own  head,  and  that  of  all  his 
posterity  ?  Was  there  no  warning  voice,  no  sheltering 
hand,  to  save  him  from  such  a  fall,  —  to  save  thy  image, 
0  God,  from  pollution  ?  Let  us  sit  down  in  sad  shades, 
and  join  the  moral  poet,  — 

"  Who  mourns  for  virtue  lost,  and  ruined  man." 

What  fair,  what  amiable  creatures  were  our  first  par- 
ents when  they  came  from  the  hands  of  their  Maker ! 
They  knew  neither  Pain,  nor  Sin,  the  sire  of  Pain ; 
nor  Shame,  the  daughter  of  Sin.  Innocent,  happy,  and 
immortal :  —  so  far  from  practising  evil  that  they  had 
not  even  the  knowledge  of  it.  Their  passions,  nicely 
balanced,  admitted  no  internal  war.   A  milky  innocence 


212  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

in  their  veins,  their  eyes  beaming  with  smiles,  —  the 
smiles  of  candor  and  simplicity,  —  they  were  the  head 
of  the  happy  creation,  till  one  fatal  moment  ruined  all. 
The  Garden  of  Paradise  is  shut  forever ;  and  man, 
(unhappy  outcast !)  exposed  to  the  war  of  elements 
without  and  passions  within,  his  peace  broken,  his 
heart  torn  by  the  conflict  of  jarring  emotions,  his  life 
worn  away  by  perplexing  doubts  and  heart-withering 
care,  moistens  his  daily  bread  with  tears  ;  and,  after 
struggling  a  few  years  in  the  hard,  unequal  warfare,  he 
returns  to  the  dust  from  whence  he  was  taken. 

Such  is  the  dark  side  of  the  picture.  —  But  let  us 
change  the  view,  and  see  whether  in  reality  the  human 
race  have  such  great  reason  to  lament  the  fall  of  their 
first  progenitor.  Whether  virtuous  man  now  is  not  a 
nobler  creature  than  sinless  man  then  ?  the  pupil  of  rea- 
son, than  the  child  of  nature  ?  the  follower  of  the  second, 
than  the  offspring  of  the  first  Adam  ?  Man  in  his  first 
state  had  a  mind  untainted  with  crimes ;  but  unformed, 
uncultivated,  void  of  moral  ideas,  he  could  not  rise 
but  by  his  fall ;  he  could  not  attain  to  more  perfection 
but  by  moral  discipline ;  he  could  not  know  the  joys 
of  self- approbation,  without  being  subject  to  remorse, 
—  of  sympathy,  without  feeling  distress.  Had  he 
been  always  innocent,  he  had  been  nothing  more  than 
innocent ;  had  he  never  known  his  weakness,  he  had 
never  acquired  strength.     Behold  him  now,  fashioned 


ON   EVIL.  213 

by  the  hand  of  culture,  and  shining  through  the  dark 
cloud  of  ruin,  guilt,  and  pain  that  is  spread  over  him. 
What  a  different  creature  from  the  former  man !  He 
now  knows  vice,  but  abhors  it ;  temptation,  but  resists 
it ;  error,  but  he  laments  it.  His  passions  were  once 
balanced,  they  are  now  subdued;  he  has  tasted  good 
and  evil,  and  he  knows  to  choose  the  one  and  refuse 
the  other.  Intellectual  ideas  crowd  upon  him,  and  a 
new  world  opens  within  his  breast.  His  nature  is  raised, 
refined,  exalted:  he  lives  by  faith,  by  devotion,  by 
spiritual  communion,  by  repentance,  —  he,  weeping 
beneath  the  bitter  cross,  washes  off  the  stain  of  sin. 
The  world  is  beneath  his  feet ;  for  behold  he  prayeth, 
and  things  unseen  become  present  to  his  soul.  Meek 
resignation  blunts  the  edge  of  suffering ;  and  trium- 
phant hope  looks  beyond  all  suffering  to  glory  and  to 
joy.  Thus  advancing  through  life,  he  learns  some  new 
lesson  at  every  step ;  till  by  receiving,  but  still  more 
by  conferring  benefits,  by  bearing,  and  still  further  by 
forgiving  injuries,  his  mind  is  disciplined,  his  moral 
sense  awakened,  his  taste  for  beauty,  order,  and  recti- 
tude unfolded.  He  becomes  endeared  to  those  he  has 
wept  and  prayed  and  struggled  with  through  this  vale 
of  sin  and  suffering ;  he  learns  to  pity  and  to  love  his 
fellow-partners  of  mortality;  till  at  length  the  divine 
flame  of  universal  charity  begins  to  kindle  in  his  breast. 
Then  is  the  era  of  a  new  birth ;  then  does  he  become 


21-4  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

partaker  of  a  divine  nature :  sense  is  mortified,  passion 
is  subdued,  self  is  annihilated.  And  is  not  this  a  noble 
creature  ?  a  being  worth  forming  by  so  expensive  and 
painful  a  process  ?  a  being  God  may  delight  in  ?  a 
faithful,  well-disciplined  soldier,  fit  to  co-operate  in  any 
plan,  or  mingle  with  any  order  of  rational  and  moral 
beings  throughout  the  wide  creation  ?  Place  him  where 
you  will,  he  has  learned  to  follow,  to  trust  in,  the 
Supreme  Being;  he  has  learned  humility  from  his 
errors,  steadiness  and  watchfulness  from  his  weakness ; 
his  virtues  depend  not  now  on  constitution,  but  on  firm 
principles  and  established  habits.  Is  this  the  feeble 
being  whose  infant  mind  was  unable  to  resist  the 
allurements  of  forbidden  fruit  ?  who  so  easily  listened 
to  the  seduction  of  the  tempter  ?  See  him  now  resist- 
ing unto  blood,  superior  to  principalities  and  powers, 
to  wicked  men  and  bad  angels :  neither  terrors  nor 
pleasures  can  move  him.  He  once  believed  not  the 
living  voice  of  Ins  Maker ;  having  not  seen,  he  now 
believes.  His  gratitude  once  was  faint  and  languid, 
though  he  was  surrounded  with  pleasant  things.  He 
now  loves  God,  though  overwhelmed  with  sorrow  and 
pain ;  trusts  in  him,  though  surrounded  with  difficul- 
ties ;  hopes  even  against  hope,  and  prays  without 
ceasing.  His  hopes  now  are  superior  to  his  joys  then. 
Glorious  exchange  !  from  reposing  on  flowers,  to  tread 
upon  stars,  —  from  naked  purity,  to  a  robe  of  glory, 


I 


ON   EVIL.  215 

—  from  the  food  which  cometh  out  of  the  earth  to 
the  bread  which  cometh  down  from  heaven.  For  igno- 
rance of  ill  he  hath  knowledge  of  good;  for  smiles 
of  innocence,  tears  of  rapture;  for  the  bowers  of 
paradise,  the  gates  of  heaven.  Hadst  thou,  Adam,  never 
fallen,  shepherds  and  husbandmen  only  would  have 
sprung  from  thee;  now  patriots,  martyrs,  confessors, 
apostles  ! 


216  WORKS   OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 


ON  MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS. 

I  HAPPENED  the  other  day  to  take  a  solitary  walk 
amongst  the  venerable  ruins  of  an  old  abbey.  The 
stillness  and  solemnity  of  the  place  were  favorable  to 
thought,  and  naturally  led  me  to  a  train  of  ideas  rela- 
tive to  the  scene;  when,  like  a  good  Protestant,  I 
began  to  indulge  a  secret  triumph  in  the  ruin  of  so 
many  structures  which  I  had  always  considered  as  the 
haunts  of  ignorance  and  superstition. 

Ye  are  fallen,  said  I,  ye  dark  and  gloomy  mansions 
of  mistaken  zeal,  where  the  proud  priest  and  lazy  monk 
fattened  upon  the  riches  of  the  land,  and  crept  like  ver- 
min from  their  cells,  to  spread  their  poisonous  doctrines 
through  the  nation,  and  disturb  the  peace  of  kings. 
Obscure  in  their  origin,  but  daring  and  ambitious  in 
their  guilt !  See  how  the  pure  light  of  heaven  is  clouded 
by  the  dim  glass  of  the  arched  window,  stained  with  the 
gaudy  colors  of  monkish  tales  and  legendary  fiction,  — 
fit  emblem  how  reluctantly  they  admitted  the  fairer 
light  of  truth  amidst  these  dark  recesses,  and  how  much 
they  have  debased  its  genuine  lustre  !  The  low  cells, 
the  long  and  narrow  aisles,  the  gloomy  arches,  the  damp 
and  secret  caverns  which  wind    beneath  the    hollow 


ON   MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS.  217 

ground,  far  from  impressing  on  the  mind  the  idea  of 
the  God  of  truth  and  love,  seem  only  fit  for  those  dark 
places  of  the  earth  in  which  are  the  habitations  of  cru- 
elty. These  massy  stones  and  scattered  reliques  of  the 
vast  edifice,  like  the  large  bones  and  gigantic  armor  of  a 
once  formidable  ruffian,  produce  emotions  of  mingled 
dread  and  exultation.  Farewell,  ye  once  venerated  seats  ! 
enough  of  you  remains,  and  may  it  always  remain,  to  re- 
mind us  from  what  we  have  escaped,  and  make  posterity 
forever  thankful  for  this  fairer  age  of  liberty  and  light. 

Such  were  for  a  while  my  meditations ;  but  it  is 
cruel  to  insult  a  fallen  enemy,  and  I  gradually  fell  into 
a  different  train  of  thought.  I  began  to  consider  whether 
something  might  not  be  advanced  in  favor  of  these 
institutions  during  the  barbarous  ages  in  which  they 
flourished ;  and,  though  they  have  been  productive  of 
much  mischief  and  superstition,  whether  they  might  not 
have  spread  the  glimmering  of  a  feeble  ray  of  knowl- 
edge through  that  thick  night  which  once  involved  the 
Western  hemisphere. 

And  where,  indeed,  could  the  precious  remains  of 
classical  learning,  and  the  divine  monuments  of  ancient 
taste,  have  been  safely  lodged  amidst  the  ravages  of  that 
age  of  ferocity  and  rapine  which  succeeded  the  desolation 
of  the  Eoman  Empire,  except  in  sanctuaries  like  these, 
consecrated  by  the  superstition  of  the  times  beyond 
their  intrinsic  merit  ?     The  frequencj7"  of  wars,  and  the 

VOL.    II.  10 


218  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

licentious  cruelty  with  which  they  were  conducted,  left 
neither  the  hamlet  of  the  peasant  nor  the  castle  of  the 
baron  free  from  depredation ;  but  the  church  and  mon- 
astery generally  remained  inviolate.  There  Homer  and 
Aristotle  were  obliged  to  shroud  their  heads  from  the 
rage  of  Gothic  ignorance ;  and  there  the  sacred  records 
of  Divine  truth  were  preserved,  like  treasure  hid  in  the 
earth  in  troublesome  times,  safe,  but  unenjoyed.  Some 
of  the  barbarous  nations  were  converted  before  their 
conquests,  and  most  of  them  soon  after  their  settlement 
in  the  countries  they  overran.  Those  buildings  which 
their  new  faith  taught  them  to  venerate,  afforded  a  shel- 
ter for  those  valuable  manuscripts  which  must  otherwise 
have  been  destroyed  in  the  common  wreck.  At  the 
revival  of  learning,  they  were  produced  from  their 
dormitories.  A  copy  of  the  Pandects  of  Justinian,  that 
valuable  remain  of  Eoman  law  which  first  gave  to 
Europe  the  idea  of  a  more  perfect  jurisprudence,  and 
gave  men  a  relish  for  a  new  and  important  study,  was 
discovered  in  a  monastery  of  Amalphi.  Most  of  the 
classics  were  recovered  by  the  same  means ;  and  to  this 
is  owing,  —  to  the  books  and  learning  preserved  in  these 
repositories,  —  that  we  were  not  obliged  to  begin  anew, 
and  trace  every  art  by  slow  and  uncertain  steps  from 
its  first  origin.  Science,  already  full-grown  and  vigor- 
ous, awaked  as  from  a  trance,  shook  her  pinions,  and 
soon  soared  to  the  heights  of  knowledge. 


ON   MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS.  219 

Nor  was  she  entirely  idle  during  her  recess ;  at  least 
we  cannot  but  confess  that  what  little  learning  remained 
in  the  world  was  amongst  the  priests  and  religious  or- 
ders. Books,  before  the  invention  of  paper  and  the  art 
of  printing,  were  so  dear,  that  few  private  persons  pos- 
sessed any.  The  only  libraries  were  in  convents ;  and 
the  monks  were  often  employed  in  transcribing  manu- 
scripts, which  was  a  very  tedious,  and  at  that  time  a 
very  necessary  task.  It  was  frequently  enjoined  as  a 
penance  for  some  slight  offence,  or  given  as  an  exercise 
to  the  younger  part  of  the  community.  The  monks 
were  obliged  by  their  rules  to  spend  some  stated  hours 
every  day  in  reading  and  study ;  nor  was  any  one  to  be 
chosen  abbot  without  a  competent  share  of  learning. 
They  were  the  only  historians ;  and  though  their  ac- 
counts be  interwoven  with  many  a  legendary  tale,  and 
darkened  by  much  superstition,  still  they  are  better  than 
no  histories  at  all ;  and  we  cannot  but  think  ourselves 
obliged  to  them  for  transmitting  to  us,  in  any  dress,  the 
annals  of  their  country. 

They  were  likewise  almost  the  sole  instructors  of 
youth.  Towards  the  end  of  the  tenth  century  there 
were  no  schools  in  Europe  but  the  monasteries,  and 
those  which  belonged  to  Episcopal  residences ;  nor  any 
masters  but  the  Benedictines.  It  is  true,  their  course 
of  education  extended  no  further  than  what  they  called 
the  seven  liberal  arts,  and  these  were  taught  in  a  very 


. 


220  WOEKS   OF   MBS.    BARBAULD. 

dry  and  uninteresting  manner.  But  this  was  the  genius 
of  the  age,  and  it  should  not  be  imputed  to  them  as  a 
reproach  that  they  did  not  teach  well,  when  no  one 
taught  better.  We  are  guilty  of  great  unfairness  when 
we  compare  the  schoolmen  with  the  philosophers  of  a 
more  enlightened  age.  We  should  contrast  them  with 
those  of  their  own  times ;  with  a  high-constable  of 
France  who  could  not  read ;  with  kings  who  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  in  confirmation  of  their  charters,  because 
they  could  not  write  their  names ;  with  a  whole  people 
without  the  least  glimmering  of  taste  or  literature. 
Whatever  was  their  real  knowledge,  there  was  a  much 
greater  difference  between  men  of  learning  and  the  bulk 
of  the  nation  at  that  time  than  there  is  at  present ;  and 
certainly  some  of  the  disciples  of  those  schools  who, 
though  now  fallen  into  disrepute,  were  revered  in  their 
day  by  the  names  of  the  subtle  or  the  angelic  doctors, 
showed  an  acuteness  and  strength  of  genius  which,  if 
properly  directed,  would  have  gone  far  in  philosophy ; 
and  they  only  failed  because  their  inquiries  were  not 
the  objects  of  the  human  powers.  Had  they  exercised 
half  that  acuteness  on  facts  and  experiments,  they  had 
been  truly  great  men.  However,  there  were  not  want- 
ing some,  even  in  the  darkest  ages,  whose  names  will 
be  always  remembered  with  pleasure  by  the  lovers  of 
science.  Alcuin,  the  preceptor  of  Charlemagne,  the 
first  who  introduced  a  taste  for  polite  literature  into 


ON   MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS.  221 

France,  and  the  chief  instrument  that  prince  made  use 
of  in  his  noble  endeavors  for  the  encouragement  of 
learning,  —  to  whom  the  universities  of  Soissons,  Tours, 
and  Paris  owe  their  origin ;  the  historians,  Matthew 
Paris  and  William  of  Malrosbury ;  the  elegant  and  un- 
fortunate Abelard ;  and,  to  crown  the  rest,  the  English 
Franciscan,  Poster  Bacon. 

It  may  be  here  observed,  that  forbidding  the  vulgar 
tongue  in  the  offices  of  devotion,  and  in  reading  the 
Scriptures,  though  undoubtedly  a  great  corruption  in 
the  Christian  church,  was  of  infinite  service  to  the  in- 
terests of  learning.  When  the  ecclesiastics  had  locked 
up  their  religion  in  a  foreign  tongue,  they  would  take 
care  not  to  lose  the  key.  This  gave  an  importance  to 
the  learned  languages  ;  and  every  scholar  could  not  only 
read,  but  wrote  and  disputed  in  Latin,  which  without 
such  a  motive  would  probably  have  been  no  more 
studied  than  the  Chinese.  And  at  the  time  when  the 
modern  languages  of  Europe  were  yet  unformed  and 
barbarous,  Latin  was  of  great  use  as  a  kind  of  universal 
tongue  by  which  learned  men  might  converse  and  cor- 
respond with  each  other. 

Indeed,  the  monks  were  almost  the  only  set  of  men 
who  had  leisure  or  opportunity  to  pay  the  least  atten- 
tion to  literary  subjects.  A  learned  education  (and  a 
very  little  went  to  that  title)  was  reckoned  peculiar  to 
the  religious.     It  was  almost  esteemed  a  blemish  on  the 


222  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

savage  and  martial  character  of*  the  gentry  to  have  any 
tincture  of  letters.  A  man,  therefore,  of  a  studious  and 
retired  turn,  averse  to  quarrels,  and  not  desirous  of  the 
fierce  and  sanguinary  glory  of  those  times,  beheld  in 
the  cloister  a  peaceful  and  honorable  sanctuary ;  where, 
without  the  reproach  of  cowardice,  or  danger  of  invasion, 
he  might  devote  himself  to  learning,  associate  with  men 
of  his  own  turn,  and  have  free  access  to  libraries  and 
manuscripts.  In  this  enlightened  and  polished  age, 
where  learning  is  diffused  through  every  rank,  and 
many  a  merchant's  clerk  possesses  more  real  knowledge 
than  half  the  literati  of  that  era,  we  can  scarcely  con- 
ceive how  gross  an  ignorance  overspread  those  times, 
and  how  totally  all  useful  learning  might  have  been  lost 
amongst  us,  had  it  not  been  for  an  order  of  men  vested 
with  peculiar  privileges,  and  protected  by  even  a  super- 
stitious degree  of  reverence. 

Thus  the  Muses,  with  their  attendant  arts,  in  strange 
disguise  indeed,  and  uncouth  trappings,  took  refuge  in 
the  peaceful  gloom  of  the  convent.  Statuary  carved  a 
madonna  or  a  crucifix ;  Painting  illuminated  a  missal ; 
Eloquence  made  the  panegyric  of  a  saint ;  and  History 
composed  a  legend.  Yet  still  they  breathed,  and  were 
ready,  at  any  happier  period,  to  emerge  from  obscurity 
with  all  their  native  charms  and  undiminished  lustre. 

But  there  were  other  views  in  which  those  who 
devoted  themselves  to  a  monastic  life  might  be  supposed 


ON   MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS.  223 

useful  to  society.  They  were  often  employed  either  in 
cultivating  their  gardens,  or  in  curious  mechanical 
works  ;  as  indeed  the  nuns  are  still  famous  for  many 
elegant  and  ingenious  manufactures.  By  the  constant 
communication  they  had  with  those  of  their  own  order, 
and  with  their  common  head  at  Eome,  they  maintained 
some  intercourse  between  nations  at  a  time  when  trav- 
elling was  dangerous,  and  commerce  had  not,  as  now, 
made  the  most  distant  parts  of  the  globe  familiar  to 
each  other ;  and  they  keep  up  a  more  intimate  bond  of 
union  amongst  learned  men  of  all  countries,  who  would 
otherwise  have  been  secluded  from  all  knowledge  of 
each  other.  A  monk  mmht  travel  with  more  conven- 
ience  than  any  one  else ;  his  person  was  safe,  and  he 
was  sure  of  meeting  with  proper  accommodations.  The 
intercourse  with  Eome  must  have  been  peculiarly  favor- 
able to  these  Northern  nations,  as  Italy  for  a  long  time 
led  the  way  in  every  improvement  of  politeness  or 
literature  ;  and  if  we  imported  their  superstitions,  we 
likewise  imported  their  manufactures,  their  knowledge, 
and  their  taste.  Thus  Alfred  sent  for  Italian  monks 
when  he  wanted  to  civilize  his  people,  and  introduce 
among  them  some  tincture  of  letters.  It  may  likewise 
be  presumed  that  they  tempered  the  rigor  of  monarchy. 
Indeed  they,  as  well  as  the  sovereigns,  endeavored  to 
enslave  the  people ;  but  subjection  was  not  likely  to  be 
so  abject  and  unlimited  where  the  object  of  it  was 


224  WORKS   OF   MBS.    BARBAULD. 

divided,  and  each  showed  by  turns  that  the  other  might 
be  opposed.  It  must  have  been  of  service  to  the  cause 
of  liberty  to  have  a  set  of  men  whose  laws,  privileges, 
and  immunities  the  most  daring  kings  were  afraid  to 
trample  on ;  and  this,  before  a  more  enlightened  spirit 
of  freedom  had  arisen,  might  have  its  effect  in  prevent- 
ing the  states  of  Christendom  from  falling  into  such 
entire  slavery  as  the  Asiatics. 

Such  an  order  would  in  some  degree  check  the  ex- 
cessive regard  paid  to  birth.  A  man  of  mean  origin 
and  obscure  parentage  saw  himself  excluded  from 
almost  every  path  of  secular  preferment,  and  almost 
treated  as  a  being  of  an  inferior  species  by  the  high 
and  haughty  spirit  of  the  gentry ;  but  he  was  at  liberty 
to  aspire  to  the  highest  dignities  of  the  Church ;  and 
there  have  been  many  who,  like  Sextus  V.,  have  by 
their  industry  and  personal  merit  alone  raised  them- 
selves to  a  level  with  kings. 

It  should  likewise  be  remembered  that  many  of  the 
orders  were  charitable  institutions ;  as  the  knights  of 
faith  and  charity  in  the  thirteenth  century,  who  were 
associated  for  the  purpose  of  suppressing  those  bands 
of  robbers  which  infested  the  public  roads  in  France ; 
the  brethren  of  the  Order  of  the  Redemption,  for  redeem- 
ing slaves  from  the  Mahometans;  the  Order  of  St. 
Anthony,  first  established  for  th^  relief  of  the  poor 
under  certain  disorders  ;  and  the  brethren  and  sisters  of 


ON   MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS.  225 

the  pious  and  Christian  schools,  for  educating  poor  chil- 
dren. These  supplied  the  place  of  hospitals  and  such 
other  foundations,  which  are  now  established  on  the 
broader  basis  of  public  benevolence.  To  bind  up  the 
wounds  of  the  stranger  was  peculiarly  the  office  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  convent ;  and  they  often  shared  the 
charities  they  received.  The  exercise  of  hospitality  is 
still  their  characteristic,  and  must  have  been  of  particu- 
lar use  formerly,  when  there  were  not  the  conveniences 
and  accommodations  for  travelling  which  we  now  enjoy. 
The  learned  stranger  was  always  sure  of  an  agreeable 
residence  amongst  them;  and  as  they  all  understood 
Latin,  they  served  him  for  interpreters,  and  introduced 
him  to  a  sight  of  whatever  was  curious  or  valuable  in 
the  countries  which  he  visited.  They  checked  the 
spirit  of  savage  fierceness,  to  which  our  warlike  ances- 
tors were  so  prone,  with  the  mildness  and  sanctity  of 
religious  influences ;  they  preserved  some  respect  to 
law  and  order,  and  often  decided  controversies  by 
means  less  bloody  than  the  sword,  though  confessedly 
more  superstitious. 

A  proof  that  these  institutions  had  a  favorable  aspect 
towards  civilization  may  be  drawn  from  a  late  history 
of  Ireland.  "  Soon  after  the  introduction  of  Christianity 
into  that  kingdom,"  says  Dr.  Leland,  "  the  monks  fixed 
their  habitations  in  deserts,  which  they  cultivated  with 
their  own  hands,  and  rendered  the  most  delightful  spots 
10*  o 


i 


226 


WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


in  the  kingdom.  These  deserts  became  well-policed 
cities  ;  and  it  is  remarkable  enough,  that  to  the  monks 
we  owe  so  useful  an  institution  in  Ireland  as  the  bring- 
ing great  numbers  together  into  one  civil  community. 
In  these  cities  the  monks  set  up  schools,  and  taught 
not  only  the  youth  of  Ireland,  but  the  neighboring 
nations,  furnishing  them  also  with  books.  They  be- 
came umpires  between  contending  chiefs,  and  when 
they  could  not  Confine  them  within  the  bounds  of 
reason  and  religion,  at  least  terrified  them  by  denoun- 
cing Divine  vengeance  against  their  excesses." 

Let  it  be  considered,  too,  that  when  the  minds  of  men 
began  to  open,  some  of  the  most  eminent  reformers 
sprung  from  the  bosom  of  the  Church,  and  even  of  the 
convent.  It  was  not  the  laity  who  began  to  think. 
The  ecclesiastics  were  the  first  to  perceive  the  errors 
they  had  introduced.  The  Church  was  reformed  from 
within,  not  from  without ;  and,  like  the  silk- worm,  when 
ripened  in  their  cells  to  maturer  vigor  and  perfection, 
they  pierced  the  cloud  themselves  had  spun,  and  within 
which  they  had  so  long  been  enveloped. 

And  let  not  the  good  Protestant  be  too  much  startled 
if  I  here  venture  to  insinuate  that  the  monasteries 
were  schools  of  some  high  and  respectable  virtues. 
Poverty,  chastity,  and  a  renunciation  of  the  world, 
were  certainly  intended  in  the  first  plan  of  these  in- 
stitutions ;  and  though,  from  the  unavoidable  frailty  of 


ON   MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS.  227 

human  nature,  they  were  not  always  observed,  certain 
it  is  that  many  individuals  amongst  them  have  been 
striking  examples  of  the  self-denying  virtues ;  and  as 
the  influence  they  acquired  was  only  built  upon  the 
voluntary  homage  of  the  mind,  it  may  be  presumed 
such  an  ascendency  was  not  originally  gained  without 
some  species  of  merit.  The  fondness  for  monkery  is 
easily  deduced  from  some  of  the  best  principles  in  the 
human  heart.  It  was  indeed  necessity  that  in  the 
third  century  first  drove  the  Christians  to  shelter 
themselves  from  the  Decian  persecution  in  the  soli- 
tary deserts  of  Thebais  ;  but  the  humor  soon  spread, 
and  numbers  under  the  name  of  hermits,  or  eremites, 
secluded  themselves  from  the  .commerce  of  mankind, 
choosing  the  wildest  solitudes,  living  in  caves  and 
hollows  of  the  rocks,  and  subsisting  on  such  roots  and 
herbs  as  the  ground  afforded  them.  About  the  fourth 
century  they  were  gathered  into  communities,  and 
increased  with  surprising  rapidity.  It  was  then  that, 
by  a  great  and  sudden  revolution,  the  fury  of  persecu- 
tion had  ceased,  and  the  governing  powers  were  become 
friendly  to  Christianity.  But  the  agitation  of  men's 
minds  did  not  immediately  subside  with  the  storm. 
The  Christians  had  so  long  experienced  the  necessity  of 
resigning  all  the  enjoyments  of  life,  and  were  so  de- 
tached from  every  tie  which  might  interfere  with  the 
profession  of  their  faith,  that  upon  a  more  favorable 


228 


WORKS    OF   MllS.    BARBAULD. 


turn  of  affairs  they  hardly  dared  open  their  minds  to 
pleasurable  emotions.  They  thought  the  life  of  a  good 
man  must  be  a  continual  warfare  between  mind  and 
body ;  and  having  been  long  used  to  see  ease  and  safety 
on  the  one  side  and  virtue  on  the  other,  no  wonder 
if  the  association  was  so  strong  in  their  minds  as  to 
suggest  the  necessity  of  voluntary  mortification,  and 
lead  them  to  inflict  those  sufferings  upon  themselves 
which  they  no  longer  apprehended  from  others.  They 
had  continually  experienced  the  amazing  effects  of 
Christianity  in  supporting  its  followers  under  hardship, 
tortures,  and  death ;  and  they  thought  little  of  its  in- 
fluence in  regulating  the  common  behavior  of  life,  if  it 
produced  none  of  those  great  exertions  they  had  been 
used  to  contemplate.  They  were  struck  with  the  change 
from  heathen  licentiousness  to  the  purity  of  the  gospel ; 
and  thought  they  could  never  be  far  enough  removed 
from  that  bondage  of  the  senses  which  it  had  just  cost 
them  so  violent  a  struggle  to  escape.  The  minds  of  men 
were  working  with  newly  received  opinions,  not  yet 
mellowed  into  a  rational  faith ;  and  the  young  converts, 
astonished  at  the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  the  doc- 
trines which  then  first  entered  their  hearts  with  irresisti- 
ble force,  thought  them  worthy  to  engross  their  whole 
attention.  The  mystic  dreams  of  the  Platonist  mingled 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  martyr ;  and  it  soon  became 
the  prevailing  opinion  that  silence,  solitude,  and  c,on- 


ON    MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS.  229 

templation  were  necessary  for  the  reception  of  Divine 
truth.  Mistaken  ideas  prevailed  of  a  purity  and  per- 
fection far  superior  to  the  rules  of  common  life,  which 
was  only  to  be  attained  by  those  who  denied  themselves 
all  the  indulgences  of  sense  ;  and  thus  the  ascetic  sever- 
ities of  the  cloister  succeeded  in  some  degree  to  the 
philosophic  poverty  of  the  Cynic  school  and  the  lofty 
virtues  of  the  Stoic. 

Indeed,  it  is  now  the  prevailing  taste  in  morals  to 
decry  every  observance  which  has  the  least  appearance 
of  rigor,  and  to  insist  only  on  the  softer  virtues.  But  let 
it  be  remembered  that  self-command  and  self-denial  are 
as  necessary  to  the  practice  of  benevolence,  charity,  and 
compassion,  as  to  any  other  duty ;  that  it  is  impossible 
to .  live  to  others  without  denying  ourselves ;  and  that 
the  man  who  has  not  learned  to  curb  his  appetites  and 
passions  is  ill  qualified  for  those  sacrifices  which  the 
friendly  affections  are  continually  requiring  of  him.  The 
man  who  has  that  one  quality  of  self-command  will  find 
little  difficulty  in  the  practice  of  any  other  duty ;  as, 
on  the  contrary,  he  who  has  it  not,  though  possessed  of 
the  gentlest  feelings  and  most  refined  sensibilities,  will 
soon  find  his  benevolence  sink  into  a  mere  companion- 
able easiness  of  temper,  neither  useful  to  others  nor 
happy  for  himself.  A  noble  enthusiasm  is  sometimes 
of  use  to  show  how  far  human  nature  can  go.  Though 
it  may  not  be  proper  or  desirable  that  numbers  should 


230 


WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


seclude  themselves  from  the  common  duties  and  ordi- 
nary avocations  of  life  for  the  austerer  lessons  of  the 
cloister,  yet  it  is  not  unuseful  that  some  should  push 
their  virtues  to  even  a  romantic  height ;  and  it  is 
encouraging  to  reflect,  in  the  hour  of  temptation,  that 
the  love  of  ease,  the  aversion'  to  pain,  every  appetite 
and  passion,  and  even  the  strongest  propensities  in  our 
nature,  have  been  controlled ;  that  the  empire  of  the 
mind  over  the  body  has  been  asserted  in  its  fullest 
extent ;  and  that  there  have  been  men  in  all  ages 
capable  of  voluntarily  renouncing  all  the  world  offers, 
voluntarily  suffering  all  it  dreads,  and  living  indepen- 
dent, and  unconnected  with  it.  Nor  was  it  a  small 
advantage,  or  ill  calculated  to  support  the  dignity  of 
science,  that  a  man  of  learning  might  be  respectable 
in  a  coarse  gown,  a  leathern  girdle,  and  barefooted. 
Cardinal  Ximenes  preserved  the  severe  simplicity  of  a 
convent  amidst  the  pomp  and  luxury  of  palaces ;  and 
to  those  who  thus  thought  it  becoming  in  the  highest 
stations  to  affect  the  appearance  of  poverty,  the  reality 
surely  could  not  be  very  dreadful. 

There  is  yet  another  light  in  which  these  institutions 
may  be  considered.  It  is  surely  not  improper  to  pro- 
vide a  retreat  for  those  who,  stained  by  some  deep  and 
enormous  crime,  wish  to  expiate  by  severe  and  un- 
common penitence  those  offences  which  render  them 
unworthy  of  freer  commerce  with  the  world.     Kepent- 


ON   MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS.  231 

ance  is  never  so  secure  from  a  relapse  as  when  it  breaks 
off  at  once  from  every  former  connection,  and,  entering 
upon  a  new  course  of  life,  bids  adieu  to  every  object 
that  might  revive  the  idea  of  temptations  which  have 
once  prevailed.  In  these  solemn  retreats,  the  stillness 
and  acknowledged  sanctity  of  the  place,  with  the  strik- 
ing novelty  of  everything  around  them,  might  have 
great  influence  in  calming  the  passions  ;  might  break 
the  force  of  habit,  and  suddenly  induce  a  new  turn  of 
thinking.  There  are  likewise  afflictions  so  overwhelm- 
ing to  humanity  that  they  leave  no  relish  in  the  mind 
for  anything  else  than  to  enjoy  its  own  melancholy  in 
silence  and  solitude ;  and  to  a  heart  torn  with  remorse, 
or  oppressed  with  sorrow,  the  gloomy  severities  of  La 
Trappe  are  really  a  relief.  Retirement  is  also  the 
favorite  wish  of  age.  Many  a  statesman  and  many  a 
warrior,  sick  of  the  bustle  of  that  world  to  which  they 
had  devoted  the  prime  of  their  days,  have  longed  for 
some  quiet  cell,  where,  like  Cardinal  Wolsey  or  Charles 
V.,  they  might  shroud  their  gray  hairs,  and  lose  sight 
of  the  follies  with  which  they  had  been  too  much  tainted. 
Though  there  is,  perhaps,  less  to  plead  for  immuring 
beauty  in  a  cloister,  and  confining  that  part  of  the  spe- 
cies who  are  formed  to  shine  in  families  and  sweeten 
society  to  the  barren  duties  and  austere  discipline  of  a 
monastic  life,  yet  circumstances  might  occur  in  which 
they  would,  even  to  a  woman,  be  a  welcome  refuge.     A 


232  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

young  female,  wlioni  accident  or  war  had  deprived  of 
her  natural  protectors,  must,  in  an  age  of  barbarism,  be 
peculiarly  exposed  and  helpless.  A  convent  offered  her 
an  asylum  where  she  might  be  safe,  at  least,  if  not 
happy ;  and  add  to  the  consciousness  of  unviolated  vir- 
tue the  flattering  dreams  of  angelic  purity  and  perfec- 
tion. There  were  orders,  as  well  among  the  women  as 
the  men,  instituted  for  charitable  purposes,  such  as  that 
of  the  virgins  of  love,  or  daughters  of  mercy,  founded  in 
1660  for  the  relief  of  the  sick  poor,  with  others  for  in- 
structing their  children.  These  must  have  been  pecu- 
liarly suited  to  the  softness  and  compassion  of  the  sex ; 
and  to  this  it  is  no  doubt  owing,  that  still,  in  Catholic 
countries,  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  often  visit  the  hos- 
pitals and  houses  of  the  poor,  waiting  on  them  with  the 
most  tender  assiduity,  and  performing  such  offices  as 
our  Protestant  ladies  would  be  shocked  at  the  thoughts 
of.  We  should  also  consider  that  most  of  the  females 
who  now  take  the  veil  are  such  as  have  no  agreeable 
prospects  in  life.  Why  should  not  these  be  allowed  to 
quit  a  world  which  will  never  miss  them  ?  It  is  easier 
to  retire  from  the  public  than  to  support  its  disregard. 
The  convent  is  to  them  a  shelter  from  poverty  and  neg- 
lect. Their  little  community  grows  dear  to  them.  The 
equality  which  subsists  among  these  sisters  of  obscu- 
rity, the  similarity  of  their  fate,  the  peace,  the  leisure 
they  enjoy,  give  rise  to  the  most  endearing  friendships. 


ON   MONASTIC   INSTITUTIONS. 


233 


Their  innocence  is  shielded  by  the  simplicity  of  their 
life  from  even  the  idea  of  ill ;  and  they  are  flattered  by 
the  notion  of  a  voluntary  renunciation  of  pleasures, 
which,  probably,  had  they  continued  in  the  world,  they 
would  have  had  little  share  in. 

After  all  that  can  be  said,  we  have  reason  enough  to 
rejoice  that  the  superstitions  of  former  times  are  now 
fallen  into  disrepute.  What  might  be  a  palliative  at 
one  time,  soon  became  a  crying  evil  in  itself.  When 
the  fuller  day  of  science  began  to  dawn,  the  monkish 
orders  were  willing  to  exclude  its  brightness,  that  the 
dim  lamp  might  still  glimmer  in  their  cell.  Their  grow- 
ing vices  have  rendered  them  justly  odious  to  society, 
and  they  seem  in  a  fair  way  of  being  forever  abolished. 
But  may  we  not  still  hope  that  the  world  was  better 
than  it  would  have  been  without  them,  and  that  He 
who  knows  to  bring  good  out  of  evil  has  made  them,  in 
their  day,  subservient  to  some  useful  purposes  ?  The 
corruptions  of  Christianity,  which  have  been  accu- 
mulating for  so  many  ages,  seem  to  be  now  gradually 
clearing  away,  and  some  future  period  may  perhaps 
exhibit  our  religion  in  all  its  native  simplicity. 

So  the  pure,  limpid  stream,  -when  foul  with  stains 
Of  rushing  torrents  and  descending  rains, 
"Works  itself  clear,  and  as  it  runs  refines, 
Till  by  degrees  the  floating  mirror  shines  ; 
Reflects  each  flower  that  on  its  borders  grows, 
And  a  new  heaven  in  its  fair  bosom  shows. 


234  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BABBAULD. 


AGAIXST    INCONSISTENCY    IN    OUR    EXPEC- 
TATIONS. 

"  What  is  more  reasonable,  than  that  they  who  take  pains  for  anything 
should  get  most  in  that  particular  for  which  they  take  pains  ?  They  have 
taken  pains  for  power,  you  for  right  principles ;  they  for  riches,  you  for  a 
proper  use  of  the  appearance  of  things  :  see  whether  they  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  you  in  that  for  which  you  have  taken  pains,  and  which  they 
neglect.  If  they  are  in  power,  and  you  not,  why  will  not  you  speak  the 
truth  to  yourself,  that  you  do  nothing  for  the  sake  of  power,  but  that 
they  do  everything  ?  Xo,  but  since  I  take  care  to  have  right  principles.,  it 
is  more  reasonable  that  I  should  have  power.  Yes,  in  respect  to  what 
you  take  care  about,  your  principles.  But  give  up  to  others  the  things  in 
which  they  have  taken  more  care  than  you.  Else  it  is  just  as  if,  because 
you  have  right  principles,  you  should  think  it  fit  that,  when  you  shoot  an 
arrow,  you  should  hit  the  mark  better  than  an  archer,  or  that  you  should 
forge  better  than  a  smith."  —  Carter's  Ejpictetus. 

AS  most  of  the  unhappiness  in  the  world  arises 
rather  from  disappointed  desires  than  from 
positive  evil,  it  is  of  the  utmost  consequence  to  attain 
just  notions  of  the  laws  and  order  of  the  universe,  that 
we  may  not  vex  ourselves  with  fruitless  wishes,  or  give 
way  to  groundless  and  unreasonable  discontent.  The 
laws  of  natural  philosophy,  indeed,  are  tolerably  un- 
derstood and  attended  to ;  and  though  we  may  suffer 
inconveniences,  we  are  seldom  disappointed  in  conse- 
quence of  them.     Xo  man  expects  to  preserve  orange- 


AGAINST   INCONSISTENCY  IN   OUR  EXPECTATIONS.      235 

trees  in  the  open  air  through  an  English  winter;  or, 
when  he  has  planted  an  acorn,  to  see  it  become  a  large 
oak  in  a  few  months.  The  mind  of  man  naturally 
yields  to  necessity ;  and  our  wishes  soon  subside  when 
we  see  the  impossibility  of  their  being  gratified.  Now, 
upon  an  accurate  inspection,  we  shall  find,  in  the  moral 
government  of  the  world,  and  the  order  of  the  intellec- 
tual system,  laws  as  determinate,  fixed,  and  invariable 
as  any  in  Newton's  "  Principia."  The  progress  of  vege- 
tation is  not  more  certain  than  the  growth  of  habit; 
nor  is  the  power  of  attraction  more  clearly  proved  than 
the  force  of  affection  or  the  influence  of  example.  The 
man,  therefore,  who  has  well  studied  the  operations  of 
nature  in  mind  as  well  as  matter  will  acquire  a  certain 
moderation  and  equity  in  his  claims  upon  Providence. 
He  never  will  be  disappointed  either  in  himself  or 
others.  He  will  act  with  precision,  and  expect  that 
effect  and  that  alone  from  his  efforts,  which  they  are 
naturally  adapted  to  produce.  For  want  of  this,  men 
of  mind  and  integrity  often  censure  the  dispositions  of 
Providence  for  suffering  characters  they  despise  to  run 
away  with  advantages  which,  they  yet  know,  are  pur- 
chased by  such  means  as  a  high  and  noble  spirit  could 
never  submit  to.  If  you  refuse  to  pay  the  price,  why 
expect  the  purchase  ?  We  should  consider  this  world  as 
a  great  mart  of  commerce,  where  fortune  exposes  to  our 
view  various  commodities, — riches,  ease,  tranquillity, 


236  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

fame,  integrity,  knowledge.  Every  tiling  is  marked  at 
a  settled  price.  Our  time,  our  labor,  our  ingenuity,  is 
so  much  ready  money  which  we  are  to  lay  out  to  the 
best  advantage.  Examine,  compare,  choose,  reject ;  but 
stand  to  your  own  judgment;  and  do  not,  like  chil- 
dren, when  you  have  purchased  one  thing,  repine  that 
you  do  not  possess  another  which  you  did  not  purchase. 
Such  is  the  force  of  well-regulated  industry,  that  a 
steady  and  vigorous  exertion  of  our  faculties,  directed 
to  one  end,  will  generally  insure  success.  "Would  you, 
for  instance,  be  rich  ?  Do  you  think  that  single  point 
worth  the  sacrificing  everything  else  to  ?  You  may 
then  be  rich.  Thousands  have  become  so  from  the 
lowest  beginnings  by  toil,  and  patient  diligence,  and 
attention  to  the  minutest  articles  of  expense  and  profit. 
But  you  must  give  up  the  pleasures  of  leisure,  of  a 
vacant  mind,  of  a  free,  unsuspicious  temper.  If  you 
preserve  your  integrity,  it  must  be  a  coarse-spun  and 
vulgar  honesty.  Those  high  and  lofty  notions  of  morals 
which  you  brought  with  you  from  the  schools  must  be 
considerably  lowered,  and  mixed  with  the  baser  alloy 
of  a  jealous  and  worldly-minded  prudence.  You  must 
learn  to  do  hard,  if  not  unjust  things ;  and  for  the  nice 
embarrassments  of  a  delicate  and  ingenuous  spirit,  it  is 
necessary  for  you  to  get  rid  of  them  as  fast  as  possible. 
You  must  shut  your  heart  against  the  Muses,  and  be 
content  to  feed  your  understanding  with  plain  house- 


AGAINST  INCONSISTENCY   IN   OUR   EXPECTATIONS.      237 

hold  truths.  In  short,  you  must  not  attempt  to  enlarge 
your  ideas,  or  polish  your  taste,  or  refine  your  sen- 
timents ;  but  must  keep  on  in  one  beaten  track,  without 
turning  aside  either  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left. 
"  But  I  cannot  submit  to  drudgery  like  this,  —  I  feel  a 
spirit  above  it."  'T  is  well :  be  above  it,  then,  only  do 
not  repine  that  you  are  not  rich. 

Is  knowledge  the  pearl  of  price  ?  That  too  may  be 
purchased  —  by  steady  application,  and  long,  solitary 
hours  of  study  and  reflection.  Bestow  these,  and  you 
shall  be  wise.  "  But  (says  the  man  of  letters)  what  a 
hardship  it  is  that  many  an  illiterate  fellow  who  cannot 
construe  the  motto  of  the  arms  on  his  coach  shall  raise 
a  fortune  and  make  a  figure,  while  I  have  little  more 
than  the  common  conveniences  of  life  ! "  Et  tibi  magna 
satis !  Was  it  in  order  to  raise  a  fortune  that  you 
consumed  the  sprightly  hours  of  youth  in  study  and 
retirement  ?  Was  it  to  be  rich  that  you  grew  pale  over 
the  midnight  lamp,  and  distilled  the  sweetness  from 
the  Greek  and  Eoman  spring?  You  have  then  mis- 
taken your  path,  and  ill  employed  your  industry. 
"  What  reward  have  I,  then,  for  all  my  labors  ? "  What 
reward  !  A  large,  comprehensive  soul,  well  purged  from 
vulgar  fears  and  perturbations  and  prejudices ;  able 
to  comprehend  and  interpret  the  works  of  man  —  of 
God.  A  rich,  flourishing,  cultivated  mind,  pregnant 
with  inexhaustible  stores  of  entertainment  and  reflec- 


. 


238  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

tion.  A  perpetual  spring  of  fresh  ideas,  and  the  con- 
scious dignity  of  superior  intelligence.  Good  heaven  ! 
and  what  revvard  can  you  ask  besides? 

"  But  is  it  not  some  reproach  upon  the  economy  of 
Providence  that  such  a  one,  who  is  a  mean,  dirty  fellow, 
should  have  amassed  wealth  enough  to  buy  half  a 
nation  ? "  Not  in  the  least.  He  made  himself  a  mean, 
dirty  fellow  for  that  very  end.  He  .has  paid  his  health, 
his  conscience,  his  liberty,  for  it;  and  will  you  envy 
him  his  bargain  ?  Will  you  hang  your  head  and  blush 
in  his  presence  because  he  outshines  you  in  equipage 
and  show  ?  Lift  up  your  brow  with  a  noble  confidence, 
and  say  to  yourself,  I  have  not  these  things,  it  is  true; 
but  it  is  because  I  have  not  sought,  because  I  have  not 
desired  them ;  it  is  because  I  possess  something  better. 
I  have  chosen  my  lot.     I  am  content  and  satisfied. 

You  are  a  modest  man.  You  love  quiet  and  in- 
dependence, and  have  a  delicacy  and  reserve  in  your 
temper  which  renders  it  impossible  for  you  to  elbow 
your  way  in  the  world,  and  be  the  herald  of  your  own 
merits.  Be  content,  then,  with  a  modest  retirement, 
with  the  esteem  of  your  intimate  friends,  with  the 
praises  of  a  blameless  heart,  and  a  delicate,  ingenuous 
spirit ;  but  resign  the  splendid  distinctions  of  the  world 
to  those  who  can  better  scramble  for  them. 

The  man  whose  tender  sensibility  of  conscience  and 
strict  regard  to  the  rules  of  morality  make  him  scru- 


AGAINST   INCONSISTENCY  IN   OUR   EXPECTATIONS.      239 

pulous  and  fearful  of  offending  is  often  heard  to  com- 
plain of  the  disadvantages  lie  lies  under  in  every  path 
of  honor  and  profit.  "  Could  I  but  get  over  some  nice 
points,  and  conform  to  the  practice  and  opinion  of 
those  about  me,  I  might  stand  as  fair  a  chance  as  others 
for  dignities  and  preferment."  And  why  can  you  not  ? 
What  hinders  you  from  discarding  this  troublesome 
scrupulosity  of  yours  which  stands  so  grievously  in 
your  way  ?  If  it  be  a  small  thing  to  enjoy  a  healthful 
mind,  sound  at  the  very  core,  that  does  not  shrink  from 
the  keenest  inspection ;  inward  freedom  from  remorse 
and  perturbation;  unsullied  whiteness  and  simplicity 
of  manners ;  a  genuine  integrity, 

"  Fure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind,"  — 

if  you  think  these  advantages  an  inadequate  recom- 
pense for  what  you  resign,  dismiss  your  scruples  this 
instant,  and  be  a  slave-merchant,  a  parasite,  or  —  what 
you  please. 

"  If  these  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes  "  ; 

and  as  you  have  not  spirit  to  assert  the  dignity  of 
virtue,  be  wise  enough  not  to  forego  the  emoluments 
of  vice. 

I  much  admire  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  philosophers, 
in  that  they  never  attempted,  as  our  moralists  often  do, 
to  lower  the  tone  of  philosophy,  and  make  it  consistent 
with  all  the  indulgences  of  indolence  and  sensuality. 


240  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

They  never  thought  of  having  the  bulk  of  mankind 
for  their  disciples,  but  kept  themselves  as  distinct  as 
possible  from  a  worldly  life.  They  plainly  told  men 
what  sacrifices  were  required,  and  what  advantages 
they  were  which  might  be  expected. 

"  Si  virtus  hoc  una  potest  dare,  fortis  omissis 
Hoc  age  deliciis  .  .  .  .  " 

If  you  would  be  a  philosopher,  these  are  the  terms. 
You  must  do  thus  and  thus  :  there  is  no  other  way.  If 
not,  go  and  be  one  of  the  vulgar. 

There  is  no  one  quality  gives  so  much  dignity  to  a 
character  as  consistency  of  conduct.  Even  if  a  man's 
pursuits  be  wrong  and  unjustifiable,  yet  if  they  are 
prosecuted  with  steadiness  and  vigor,  we  cannot  with- 
hold our  admiration.  The  most  characteristic  mark  of 
a  great  mind  is  to  choose  some  one  important  object, 
and  pursue  it  through  life.  It  was  this  made  Caesar  a 
great  man.  His  object  was  ambition ;  he  pursued  it 
steadily,  and  was  always  ready  to  sacrifice  to  it  every 
interfering  passion  or  inclination. 

There  is  a  pretty  passage  in  one  of  Lucian's  dialogues, 
where  Jupiter  complains  to  Cupid  that,  though  he  has 
had  so  many  intrigues,  he  was  never  sincerely  beloved. 
In  order  to  be  loved,  says  Cupid,  you  must  lay  aside 
your  a?gis  and  your  thunder-bolts,  and  you  must  curl 
and  perfume  your  hair,  and  place  a  garland  on  your 
head,  and  -walk  with  a  soft  step,  and  assume  a  winning, 


AGAINST   INCONSISTENCY   IN    OUR   EXPECTATIONS.      241 

obsequious  deportment.  But,  replied  Jupiter,  I  am  not 
-willing  to  resign  so  much  of  my  dignity.  Then,  returns 
Cupid,  leave  off  desiring  to  be  loved.  He  wanted  to  be 
Jupiter  and  Adonis  at  the  same  time. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  men  of  genius  are  of  all 
others  most  inclined  to  make  these  unreasonable  claims. 
As  their  relish  for  enjoyment  is  strong,  their  views 
large  and  comprehensive,  and  they  feel  themselves 
lifted  above  the  common  bulk  of  mankind,  they  are 
apt  to  slight  that  natural  reward  of  praise  and  admira- 
tion which  is  ever  largely  paid  to  distinguished  abili- 
ties, and  to  expect  to  be  called  forth  to  public  notice 
and  favor,  without  considering  that  their  talents  are 
commonly  very  unfit  for  active  life ;  that  their  eccen- 
tricity and  turn  for  speculation  disqualifies  them  for 
the  business  of  the  world,  which  is  best  carried  on  by 
men  of  moderate  genius ;  and  that  society  is  not  obliged 
to  reward  any  one  who  is  not  useful  to  it.  The  poets 
have  been  a  very  unreasonable  race,  and  have  often 
complained  loudly  of  the  neglect  of  genius  and  the 
ingratitude  of  the  age.  The  tender  and  pensive  Cowley 
and  the  elegant  Shenstone  had  their  minds  tinctured 
by  this  discontent ;  and  even  the  sublime  melancholy 
of  Young  was  too  much  owing  to  the  stings  of  dis- 
appointed ambition. 

The  moderation  we  have  been  endeavoring  to  in- 
culcate will  likewise  prevent  much  mortification  and 

VOL.   II.  11  p 


242 


WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 


disgust  in  our  commerce  with  mankind.  As  we  ought 
not  to  wish  in  ourselves,  so  neither  should  we  expect 
in  our  friends,  contrary  qualifications.  Young  and  san- 
guine, when  we  enter  the  world,  and  feel  our  affections 
drawn  forth  by  any  particular  excellence  in  a  character, 
we  immediately  give  it  credit  for  all  others ;  and  are 
beyond  measure  disgusted  when  we  come  to  discover, 
as  we  soon  must  discover,  the  defects  in  the  other  side 
of  the  balance.  But  nature  is  much  more  frugal  than 
to  heap  together  all  manner  of  shining  qualities  in  one 
glaring  mass.  Like  a  judicious  painter,  she  endeavors 
to  preserve  a  certain  unity  of  style  and  coloring  in 
her  pieces.  Models  of  absolute  perfection  are  only  to 
be  met  with  in  romance ;  where  exquisite  beauty,  and 
brilliant  wit,  and  profound  judgment,  and  immaculate 
virtue  are  all  blended  together  to  adorn  some  favorite 
character.  As  an  anatomist  knows  that  the  racer 
cannot  have  the  strength  and  muscles  of  the  draught- 
horse,  and  that  winged  men,  griffins,  and  mermaids 
must  be  mere  creatures  of  the  imagination  ;  so  the  phi- 
losopher is  sensible  that  there  are  combinations  of  moral 
qualities  which  never  can  take  place  but  in  idea.  There 
is  a  different  air  and  complexion  in  characters  as  well 
as  in  faces,  though  perhaps  each  equally  beautiful ;  and 
the  excellences  of  one  cannot  be  transferred  to  the 
other.  Thus  if  one  man  possesses  a  stoical  apathy  of 
soul,  acts  independent  of  the  opinion  of  the  world,  and 


AGAINST  INCONSISTENCY   IN   OUR  EXPECTATIONS.      243 

fulfils  every  duty  with  mathematical  exactness,  you 
must  not  expect  that  man  to  be  greatly  influenced  by 
the  weakness  of  pity  or  the  partialities  of  friendship  ; 
you  must  not  be  offended  that  he  does  not  fly  to  meet 
you  after  a  short  absence,  or  require  from  him  the 
convivial  spirit  and  honest  effusions  of  a  warm,  open, 
susceptible  heart.  If  another  is  remarkable  for  a  lively, 
active  zeal,  inflexible  integrity,  a  strong  indignation 
against  vice,  and  freedom  in  reproving  it,  he  will 
probably  have  some  little  bluntness  in  his  address  not 
altogether  suitable  to  polished  life ;  he  will  want  the 
winning  arts  of  conversation ;  he  will  disgust  by  a 
kind  of  haughtiness  and  negligence  in  his  manner,  and 
often  hurt  the  delicacy  of  his  acquaintance  with  harsh 
and  disagreeable  truths. 

We  usually  say,  that  man  is  a  genius,  but  he  has 
some  whims  and  oddities ;  such  a  one  has  a  very 
general  knowledge,  but  he  is  superficial,  etc..  Now,  in 
all  such  cases  we  should  speak  more  rationally  did  we 
substitute  therefore  for  but.  He  is  a  genius,  therefore 
he  is  whimsical ;  and  the  like. 

It  is  the  fault  of  the  present  age,  owing  to  the  freer 
commerce  that  different  ranks  and  professions  now 
enjoy  with  each  other,  that  characters  are  not  marked 
with  sufficient  strength ;  the  several  classes  run  too 
much  into  one  another.  We  have  fewer  pedants,  it  is 
true,  but  we  have  fewer  striking  originals.     Every  one 


244  WORKS   OF  MRS.    BARBAULD. 

is  expected  to  have  such  a  tincture  of  general  knowl- 
edge as  is  incompatible  with  going  deep  into  any 
science ;  and  such  a  conformity  to  fashionable  manners 
as  checks  the  free  workings  of  the  ruling  passion,  and 
gives  an  insipid  sameness  to  the  face  of  society,  under 
the  idea  of  polish  and  regularity. 

There  is  a  cast  of  manners  peculiar  and  becoming  to 
each  age,  sex,  and  profession ;  one,  therefore,  should  not 
throw  out  illiberal  and  commonplace  censures  against 
another.  Each  is  perfect  in  its  kind.  A  woman  as  a 
woman;  a  tradesman  as  a  tradesman.  We  are  often 
hurt  by  the  brutality  and  sluggish  .conceptions  of  the 
vulgar;  not  considering  that  some  there  must  be  to 
be  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,  and  that 
cultivated  genius,  or  even  any  great  refinement  and 
delicacy  in  their  moral  feelings,  would  be  a  real  mis- 
fortune to  them. 

Let  us  then  study  the  philosophy  of  the  human 
mind.  The  man  who  is  master  of  this  science  will 
know  what  to  expect  from  every  one.  From  tins 
man;  wise  advice ;  from  that,  cordial  sympathy ;  from 
another,  casual  entertainment.  The  passions  and  in- 
clinations of  others  are  Ins  tools,  which  he  can  use 
with  as  much  precision  as  he  would  the  mechanical 
powers ;  and  he  can  as  readily  make  allowance  for  the 
workings  of  vanity,  or  the  bias  of  self-interest  in  his 
friends,  as  for  the  power  of  friction  or  the  irregularities 
of  the  needle. 


ON   EDUCATION.  245 


on  education; 

THE  other  day  I  paid  a  visit  to  a  gentleman 
with  whom,  though  greatly  my  superior  in  for- 
tune, I  have  long  been  in  habits  of  easy  intimacy. 
He  rose  in  the  world  by  honorable  industry;  and 
married,  rather  late  in  life,  a  lady  to  whom  he  had 
been  long  attached,  and  in  whom  centred  the  wealth 
of  several  expiring  families.  Their  earnest  wish  for 
children  was  not  immediately  gratified.  At  length  they 
were  made  happy  by  a  son,  who,  from  the  moment  he 
was  born,  engrossed  all  their  care  and  attention.  My 
friend  received  me  in  his  library,  where  I  found  him 
busied  in  turning  over  books  of  education,  of  which 
he  had  collected  all  that  were  worthy  of  notice,  from 
Xenophon  to  Locke,  and  from  Locke  to  Catherine 
Macaulay.  As  he  knows  I  have  been  engaged  in  the 
business  of  instruction,  he  did  me  the  honor  to  consult 
me  on  the  subject  of  his  researches,  hoping,  he  said, 
that,  out  of  all  the  systems  before  him,  we  should  be 
able  to  form  a  plan  equally  complete  and  comprehen- 
sive ;  it  being  the  determination  of  both  himself  and  his 
lady  to  choose  the  best  that  could  be  had,  and  to  spare 
neither  pains  nor  expense  in  making  their  child  all 


246 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


that  was  great  and  good.  I  gave  him  my  thoughts 
with  the  utmost  freedom,  and,  after  I  returned  home, 
threw  upon  paper  the  observations  which  had  occurred 
to  me. 

The  first  thing  to  be  considered,  with  respect  to 
education,  is  the  object  of  it.  This  appears  to  me  to 
have  been  generally  misunderstood.  Education,  in  its 
largest  sense,  is  a  thing  of  great  scope  and  extent.  It 
includes  the  whole  process  by  which  a  human  being 
is  formed  to  be  what  he  is,  in  habits,  principles,  and 
cultivation  of  every  kind.  But  of  this,  a  very  small 
part  is  in  the  power  even  of  the  parent  himself ;  a  small- 
er still  can  be  directed  by  purchased  tuition  of  any 
kind.  You  engage  for  your  child  masters  and  tutors 
at  large  salaries ;  and  you  do  well,  for  they  are  compe- 
tent to  instruct  him ;  they  will  give  him  the  means, 
at  least,  of  acquiring  science  and  accomplishments  ; 
but  in  the  business  of  education,  properly  so  called, 
they  can  do  little  for  you.  Do  you  ask,  then,  what 
will  educate  your  son  ?  Your  example  will  educate 
him ;  your  conversation  with  your  friends,  the  busi- 
ness he  sees  you  transact,  the  likings  and  dislikings 
you  express,  these  will  educate  him ;  —  the  society 
you  live  in  will  educate  him  ;  your  domestics  will  edu- 
cate him;  above  all,  your  rank  and  situation  in  life, 
your  house,  your  table,  your  pleasure-grounds,  your 
hounds  and  your  stables,  will  educate  him     It  is  not 


ON   EDUCATION.  247 

in    your  power  to  withdraw  him  from  the  continual 
influence  of  these  things,  except  you  were  to  withdraw 
yourself  from  them  also.     You  speak  of  beginning  the 
education  of  your  son.     The  moment  he  was  able  to 
form  an  idea,  his  education  was  already  begun;  the 
education  of  circumstances,  —  insensible  education, — 
which,  like  insensible  perspiration,  is  of  more  constant 
and  powerful  effect,  and  of  infinitely  more  consequence 
to  the  habit,  than  that  which  is  direct  and  apparent. 
This  education  goes  on  at  every  instant  of  time ;  it  goes 
on  like  time ;    you  can  neither  stop  it  nor  turn  its 
course.     What  these  have  a  tendency  to  make  your 
child,  that   he  will  be.     Maxims  and  documents  are 
good  precisely  till  they  are  tried,  and  no  longer ;  they 
will  teach  him  to  talk,  and  nothing  more.     The  circum- 
stances in  which  your  son  is  placed  will  be  even  more 
prevalent  than  your  example ;  and  you  have  no  right 
to  expect  him  to  become  what  you  yourself  are,  but  by 
the  same  means.     You,  that  have  toiled  during  youth, 
to  set  your  son  upon  higher  ground,  and  to  enable  him 
to  begin  where  you  left  off,  do  not  expect  that  son  to  be 
what  you  were,  —  diligent,  modest,  active,  simple  in  his 
tastes,  fertile  in  resources.     You  have  put  him  under 
quite  a  different  master.     Poverty  educated  you  ;  wealth 
will  educate  him.     You  cannot  suppose  the  result  will 
be  the  same.     You  must  not  even  expect  that  he  will 
be  what  you  now  are ;  for,  though  relaxed  perhaps  from 


248  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

the  severity  of  your  frugal  habits,  you  still  derive 
advantage  from  having  formed  them ;  and  in  your 
heart  you  like  plain  dinners,  and  early  hours,  and  old 
friends,  whenever  your  fortune  will  permit  you  to  enjoy 
them.  But  it  will  not  be  so  with  your  son  ;  his  tastes 
will  be  formed  by  your  present  situation,  and  in  no 
degree  by  your  former  one.  But  I  take  great  care,  you 
will  say,  to  counteract  these  tendencies,  and  to  bring 
him  up  in  hardy  and  simple  manners ;  I  know  their 
value,  and  am  resolved  that  he  shall  acquire  no  other. 
Yes,  you  make  him  hardy ;  that  is  to  say,  you  take  a 
country-house  in  a  good  air,  and  make  him  run,  well 
clothed  and  carefully  attended,  for,  it  may  be,  an  hour, 
in  a  clear,  frosty  winter's  day  upon  your  gravelled  ter- 
race ;  or  perhaps  you  take  the  puny,  shivering  infant 
from  his  warm  bed,  and  dip  him  in  an  icy- cold  bath,  — 
and  you  think  you  have  done  great  matters.  And  so 
you  have ;  you  have  done  all  you  can.  But  you  were 
suffered  to  run  abroad  half  the  day  on  a  bleak  heath, 
in  weather  fit  and  unfit,  wading  barefoot  through  dirty 
ponds,  sometimes  losing  your  way  benighted,  scram- 
bling over  hedges,  climbing  trees,  in  perils  every  hour, 
both  of  life  and  limb.  Your  life  was  of  very  little  con- 
sequence to  any  one  ;  even  your  parents,  encumbered 
with  a  numerous  family,  had  little  time  to  indulge  the 
softnesses  of  affection  or  the  solicitude  of  anxiety ;  and 
to  every  one  else  it  was  of  no  consequence  at  all.     It  is 


ON   EDUCATION.  249 

not  possible  for  you,  it  would  not  even  be  right  for  you, 
in  your  present  situation,  to  pay  no  more  attention  to 
your  child  than  was  paid  to  you.  In  these  mimic 
experiments  of  education  there  is  always  something 
which  distinguishes  them  from  reality ;  some  weak  part 
left  unfortified,  for  the  arrows  of  misfortune  to  find 
their  way  into.  Achilles  was  a  young  nobleman,  dios 
Achilleus,  and  therefore,  though  he  had  Charon  for  his 
tutor,  there  was  one  foot  left  undipped.  You  may  throw 
by  Eousseau ;  your  parents  practised  without  having 
read  it ;  you  may  read,  but  imperious  circumstances 
forbid  you  the  practice  of  it. 

You  are  sensible  of  the  advantages  of  simplicity  of 
diet ;  and  you  make  a  point  of  restricting  that  of  your 
child  to  the  plainest  food,  for  you  are  resolved  that  he 
shall  not  be  nice.  But  this  plain  food  is  of  the  choi- 
cest quality,  prepared  by  your  own  cook ;  his  fruit  is 
ripened  from  your  walls ;  his  cloth,  his  glasses,  all  the 
accompaniments  of  the  table,  are  such  as  are  only  met 
with  in  families  of  opulence ;  the  very  servants  who 
attend  him  are  neat,  well  dressed,  and  have  a  certain 
air  of  fashion.  You  may  call  this  simplicity ;  but  I 
say  he  will  be  nice,  —  for  it  is  a  kind  of  simplicity 
which  only  wealth  can  attain  to,  and  which  will  sub- 
ject him  to  be  disgusted  at  all  common  tables.  Besides, 
he  will  from  time  to  time  partake  of  those  delicacies 
which  your  table  abounds  with  ;  you  yourself  will  give 
11* 


250  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

him  of  them  occasionally ;  yon  would  he  unkind  if  you 
did  not.  Your  servants,  if  good-natured,  will  do  the 
same.  Do  you  think  you  can  keep  the  full  stream  of 
luxury  running  by  his  lips,  and  he  not  taste  of  it  ? 
Vain  imagination  ! 

I  would  not  be  understood  to  inveigh  against  wealth, 
or  against  the  enjoyments  of  it ;  they  are  real  enjoy- 
ments, and  allied  to  many  elegancies  in  manners  and  in 
taste  •  —  I  only  wish  to  prevent  unprofitable  pains  and 
inconsistent  expectations. 

You  are  sensible  of  the  benefit  of  early  rising ;  and 
you  may,  if  you  please,  make  it  a  point  that  your 
daughter  shall  retire  with  her  governess,  and  your  son 
with  his  tutor,  at  the  hour  when  you  are  preparing 
to  see  company.  But  their  sleep,  in  the  first  place, 
will  not  be  so  sweet  and  undisturbed  amidst  the  rattle 
of  carriages,  and  the  glare  of  tapers  glancing  through 
the  rooms,  as  that  of  the  village  child  in  his  quiet  cot- 
tage, protected  by  silence  and  darkness  ;  and,  moreover, 
you  may  depend  upon  it,  that,  as  the  coercive  power  of 
education  is  laid  aside,  they  will  in  a  few  months  slide 
into  the  habitudes  of  the  rest  of  the  family,  whose  hours 
are  determined  by  their  company  and  situation  in  life. 
You  have,  however,  done  good,  as  far  as  it  goes ;  it  is 
something  gained,  to  defer  pernicious  habits,  if  we  can- 
not prevent  them. 

There  is  nothing  which  has  so  little  share  in  educa- 


ON   EDUCATION.  251 

tion  as  direct  precept.  To  be  convinced  of  this,  we 
need  only  reflect  that  there  is  no  one  point  we  labor 
more  to  establish  with  children  than  that  of  their 
speaking  truth ;  and  there  is  not  any  in  which  we  suc- 
ceed worse.  And  why  ?  Because  children  readily  see 
we  have  an  interest  in  it.  Their  speaking  truth  is 
used  by  us  as  an  engine  of  government.  "  Tell  me, 
my  dear  child,  when  you  have  broken  anything,  and  I 
will  not  be  angry  with  you."  "  Thank  you  for  nothing," 
says  the  child.  "  If  I  prevent  you  from  finding  it  out, 
I  am  sure  you  will  not  be  angry  "  ;  and  nine  times  out 
of  ten  he  can  prevent  it.  He  knows  that,  in  the  com- 
mon intercourses  of  life,  you  tell  a  thousand  falsehoods. 
But  these  are  necessary  lies  on  important  occasions. 

Your  child  is  the  best  judge  how  much  occasion  he 
has  to  tell  a  lie ;  he  may  have  as  great  occasion  for  it 
as  you  have  to  conceal  a  bad  piece  of  news  from  a  sick 
friend,  or  to  hide  your  vexation  from  an  unwelcome 
visitor.  That  authority  which  extends  its  claims  over 
every  action  and  even  every  thought,  which  insists 
upon  an  answer  to  every  interrogation,  however  indis- 
creet or  oppressive  to  the  feelings,  will,  in  young  or 
old,  produce  falsehood ;  or,  if  in  some  few  instances  the 
deeply  imbibed  fear  of  future  and  unknown  punish- 
ment should  restrain  from  direct  falsehood,  it  will  pro- 
duce a  habit  of  dissimulation  which  is  still  worse.  The 
child,  the  slave,  or  the  subject,  who,  on  proper  occasions, 


252  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

may  not  say  "  I  do  not  choose  to  tell,"  will  certainly, 
by  the  circumstances  in  which  you  place  him,  be  driven 
to  have  recourse  to  deceit,  even  should  he  not  be  coun- 
tenanced by  your  example. 

I  do  not  mean  to  assert  that  sentiments  inculcated 
in  education  have  no  influence,  —  they  have  much, 
though  not  the  most ;  but  it  is  the  sentiments  we  let 
drop  occasionally,  the  conversation  they  overhear  when 
playing  unnoticed  in  a  corner  of'  the  room,  which  has 
an  effect  upon  children,  and  not  what  is  addressed 
directly  to  them  in  the  tone  of  exhortation.  If  you 
would  know  precisely  the  effect  these  set  discourses 
have  upon  your  child,  be  pleased  to  reflect  upon  that 
which  a  discourse  from  the  pulpit,  which  you  have 
reason  to  think  merely  professional,  has  upon  you. 
Children  have  almost  an  intuitive  discernment  between 
the  maxims  you  bring  forward  for  their  use  and  those 
by  which  you  direct  your  own  conduct.  Be  as  cunning 
as  you  will,  they  are  always  more  cunning  than  you. 
Every  child  knows  whom  his  father  and  mother  love, 
and  see  with  pleasure,  and  whom  they  dislike ;  for 
whom  they  think  themselves  obliged  to  set  out  their 
best  plate  and  china ;  whom  they  think  it  an  honor  to 
visit,  and  upon  whom  they  confer  honor  by  admitting 
them  to  their  company.  "  Respect  nothing  so  much  as 
virtue,"  says  Eugenio  to  his  son ;  "  virtue  and  talents 
are  the  only  grounds  of  distinction."     The  child  pres- 


ON   EDUCATION.  253 

ently  has  occasion  to  inquire  why  his  father  pulls  off 
his  hat  to  some  people  and  not  to  others ;  he  is  told 
that  outward  respect  must  be  proportioned  to  different 
stations  in  life.  Tins  is  a  little  difficult  of  comprehen- 
sion ;  however,  by  dint  of  explanation,  he  gets  over  it 
tolerably  well.  But  he  sees  his  father's  house  in  the 
bustle  and  hurry  of  preparation ;  common  business  laid 
aside,  everybody  in  movement,  an  unusual  anxiety  to 
please  and  to  shine.  Nobody  is  at  leisure  to  receive 
his  caresses  or  attend  to  his  questions ;  his  lessons  are 
interrupted,  his  hours   deranged.     At   length   a   guest 

arrives ;  it  is  my  Lord ,  whom  he  has  heard  you 

speak  of  twenty  times  as  one  of  the  most  worthless 
characters  upon  earth.  Your  child,  Eugenio,  has  re- 
ceived a  lesson  of  education.  Eesume,  if  you  will,  your 
systems  of  morality  on  the  morrow,  you  will  in  vain 
attempt  to  eradicate  it.  "  You  expect  company,  mamma ; 
must  I  be  dressed  to-day  ? "  "  No,  it  is  only  good  Mrs. 
Such-a-one."  Your  child  has  received  a  lesson  of  edu- 
cation ;  one  which  he  well  understands  and  will  long 
remember.  You  have  sent  your  child  to  a  public 
school ;  but  to  secure  his  morals  against  the  vice  winch 
you  too  justly  apprehend  abounds  there,  you  have  giv- 
en him  .a  private  tutor,  —  a  man  of  strict  morals  and 
religion.  He  may  help  him  to  prepare  his  tasks ;  but 
do  you  imagine  it  will  be  in  his  power  to  form  his 
mind  ?   His  school-fellows,  the  allowance  you  give  him, 


254  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  manners  of  the  age  and  of  the  place,  will  do  that ; 
and  not  the  lectures  which  he  is  obliged  to  hear.  If 
these  are  different  from  what  you  yourself  experienced, 
you  must  not  be  surprised  to  see  him  gradually  recede 
from  the  principles,  civil  and  religious,  which  you  hold, 
and  break  off  from  your  connections,  and  adopt  manners 
different  from  your  own.  This  is  remarkably  exempli- 
fied amongst  those  of  the  Dissenters  who  have  risen  to 
wealth  and  consequence.  I  believe  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  an  instance  of  families  who  for  three  gen- 
erations have  kept  their  carriage  and  continued  Dis- 
senters. 

Education,  it  is  often  observed,  is  an  expensive  thing. 
It  is  so ;  but  the  paying  for  lessons  is  the  smallest  part 
of  the  cost.  If  you  would  go  to  the  price  of  having 
your  son  a  worthy  man,  you  must  be  so  yourself;  your 
friends,  your  servants,  your  company,  must  be  all  of 
that  stamp.  Suppose  this  to  be  the  case,  much  is  done: 
but  there  will  remain  circumstances  which  perhaps  you 
cannot  alter,  that  will  still  have  their  effect.  Do  you 
wish  him  to  love  simplicity  ?  Would  you  be  content 
to  lay  down  your  coach,  to  drop  your  title  ?  Where  is 
the  parent  who  would  do  this  to  educate  his  son  ?  You 
carry  him  to  the  workshops  of  artisans,  and  show  him 
different  machines  and  fabrics,  to  awaken  his  ingenuity. 
The  necessity  of  getting  his  bread  would  awaken  it 
much  more  effectually.      The  single  circumstance  of 


ON   EDUCATION.  255 

having  a  fortune  to  get,  or  a  fortune  to  spend,  will 
probably  operate  more  strongly  upon  his  mind,  not 
only  than  your  precepts,  but  even  than  your  example. 
You  wish  your  child  to  be  modest  and  unassuming; 
you  are  so,  perhaps,  yourself,  —  and  you  pay  liberally 
a  preceptor  for  giving  him  lessons  of  humility.  You 
do  not  perceive  that  the  very  circumstance  of  having  a 
man  of  letters  and  accomplishments  retained  about  his 
person,  for  his  sole  advantage,  tends  more  forcibly  to 
inspire  him  with  an  idea  of  self-consequence  than  all 
the  lessons  he  can  give  him  to  repress  it.  "Why  do 
not  you  look  sad,  you  rascal  ? "  says  the  undertaker 
to  his  man  in  the  play  of  " The  Funeral "  ;  "I  give  you 
I  know  not  how  much  money  for  looking  sad,  and  the 
more  I  give  you,  the  gladder  I  think  you  are."  So  will 
it  be  with  the  wealthy  heir.  The  lectures  that  are 
given  him  on  condescension  and  affability  only  prove 
to  him  upon  how  much  higher  ground  he  stands  than 
those  about  him ;  and  the  very  pains  that  are  taken 
with  his  moral  character  will  make  him  proud,  by 
showing  him  how  much  he  is  the  object  of  attention. 
You  cannot  help  these  things.  Your  servants,  out  of 
respect  to  you,  will  bear  with  his  petulance ;  your 
company,  out  of  respect  to  you,  will  forbear  to  check 
his  impatience ;  and  you  yourself,  if  he  is  clever,  will 
repeat  his  observations. 

In   the   exploded   doctrine   of  sympathies   you   are 


256 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


directed,  if  you  have  cut  your  finger,  to  let  that  alone, 
and  put  your  plaster  upon  the  knife.  This  is  very  bad 
doctrine,  I  must  confess,  in  philosophy,  but  very  good 
in  morals.  Is  a  man  luxurious,  self-indulgent  ?  do  not 
apply  your  iihysic  of  the  soul  to  him,  but  cure  his 
fortune.  Is  he  haughty  ?  cure  his  rank,  his  title.  Is 
he  vulgar  ?  cure  his  company.  Is  he  diffident  or  mean- 
spirited  ?  cure  his  poverty,  give  him  consequence,  — 
but  these  prescriptions  go  far  beyond  the  family  recipes 
of  education. 

\Yhat,  then,  is  the  result  ?  In  the  first  place,  that  we 
should  contract  our  ideas  of  education,  and  expect  no 
more  from  it  than  it  is  able  to  perform.  It  can  give 
instruction.  There  will  always  be  an  essential  dif- 
ference between  a  human  being  cultivated  and  un- 
cultivated. Education  can  provide  proper  instructors 
in  the  various  arts  and  sciences,  and  portion  out  to  the 
best  advantage  those  precious  hours  of  youth  which 
never  will  return.  It  can  likewise  give,  in  a  great 
degree,  personal  habits ;  and  even  if  these  should  after- 
wards give  way  under  the  influence  of  contrary  circum- 
stances, your  child  will  feel  the  good  effects  of  them, 
for  the  later  and  the  less  will  he  go  into  what  is  wrong. 
Let  us  also  be  assured  that  the  business  of  education, 
properly  so  called,  is  not  transferable.  You  may  engage 
masters  to  instruct  your  child  in  this  or  the  other 
accomplishment,  but  you  must  educate  him  yourself. 


OX   EDUCATION.  257 

You  not  only  ought  to  do  it,  but  you  must  do  it,  whether 
you  intend  it  or  no.  As  education  is  a  thing  necessary 
for  all,  —  for  the  poor  and  for  the  rich,  for  the  illiterate 
as  well  as  for  the  learned, — Providence  has  not  made  it 
dependent  upon  systems  uncertain,  operose,  and  difficult 
of  investigation.  It  is  not  necessary,  with  Eousseau 
or  Madame  Genlis,  to  devote  to  the  education  of  one 
child  the  talents  and  the  time  of  a  number  of  grown 
men ;  to  surround  him  with  an  artificial  world ;  and  to 
counteract,  by  maxims,  the  natural  tendencies  of  the 
situation  he  is  placed  in,  in  society.  Every  one  has  time 
to  educate  his  child :  the  poor  man  educates  him  while 
working  in  his  cottage ;  the  man  of  business  while 
employed  in  his  counting-house. 

Do  we  see  a  father  who  is  diligent  in  his  profession, 
domestic  in  Ms  habits,  whose  house  is  the  resort  of 
well-informed,  intelligent  people,  —  a  mother  whose 
time  is  usefully  filled,  whose  attention  to  her  duties 
secures  esteem,  and  whose  amiable  manners  attract 
affection  ?  Do  not  be  solicitous,  respectable  couple, 
about  the  moral  education  of  your  offspring;  do  not 
be  uneasy  because  you  cannot  surround  them  with  the 
apparatus  of  books  and  systems,  or  fancy  you  must 
retire  from  the  world  to  devote  yourselves  to  their 
improvement.  In  your  world  they  are  brought  up 
much  better  than  they  could  be  under  any  plan  of 
factitious  education  which  you  could  provide  for  them ; 

Q 


258 


WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


they  will  imbibe  affection  from  your  caresses,  taste 
from  your  conversation,  urbanity  from  the  commerce 
of  your  society,  and  mutual  love  from  your  example. 
Do  not  regret  that  you  are  not  rich  enough  to  provide 
tutors  and  governors,  to  watch  his  steps  with  sedulous 
and  servile  anxiety,  and  furnish  him  with  maxims  it  is 
morally  impossible  he  should  act  upon  when  grown  up. 
Do  not  you  see  how  seldom  this  over-culture  produces 
its  effect,  and  how  many  shining  and  excellent  charac- 
ters start  up  every  day  from  the  bosom  of  obscurity, 
with  scarcely  any  care  at  all  ? 

Are  children,  then,  to  be  neglected  ?  Surely  not ;  but, 
having  given  them  the  instruction  and  accomplish- 
ments which  their  situation  in  life  requires,  let  us 
reject  superfluous  solicitude,  and  trust  that  their  char- 
acters will  form  themselves  from  the  spontaneous  in- 
fluence of  good  examples,  and  circumstances  which 
impel  them  to  useful  action. 

But  the  education  of  your  house,  important  as 
it  is,  is  only  a  part  of  a  more  comprehensive  system. 
Providence  takes  your  child  where  you  leave  him. 
Providence  continues  his  education  upon  a  larger  scale, 
and  by  a  process  which  includes  means  far  more  effica- 
cious. Has  your  son  entered  the  world  at  eighteen, 
opinionated,  haughty,  rash,  inclined  to  dissipation  ?  Do 
not  despair ;  he  may  yet  be  cured  of  these  faults,  if  it 
pleases  Heaven.     There  are  remedies  which  you  could 


ON   EDUCATION.  259 

not  persuade  yourself  to  use,  if  they  were  in  your 
power,  and  which  are  specific  in  cases  of  this  kind. 
How  often  do  we  see  the  presumptuous,  giddy  youth 
changed  into  the  wise  counsellor,  the  considerate,  steady 
friend !  How  often  the  thoughtless,  gay  girl,  into  the 
sober  wife,  the  affectionate  mother !  Faded  beauty, 
humbled  self-consequence,  disappointed  ambition,  loss  of 
fortune,  —  this  is  the  rough  physic  provided  by  Provi- 
dence to  meliorate  the  temper,  to  correct  the  offensive 
petulancies  of  youth,  and  bring  out  all  the  energies  of 
the  finished  character.  Afflictions  soften  the  proud; 
difficulties  push  forward  the  ingenious;  successful  in- 
dustry gives  consequence  and  credit,  and  develops  a 
thousand  latent  good  qualities.  There  is  no  malady  of 
the  mind  so  inveterate,  which  this  education  of  events 
is  not  calculated  to  cure,  if  life  were  long  enough;  and 
shall  we  not  hope  that  He  in  whose  hand  are  all  the 
remedial  processes  of  nature  will  renew  the  discipline 
in  another  state,  and  finish  the  imperfect  man  ? 

States  are  educated  as  individuals,  —  by  circum- 
stances :  the  prophet  may  cry  aloud  and  spare  not ; 
the  philosopher  may  descant  on  morals ;  eloquence  may 
exhaust  itself  in  invective  against  the  vices  of  the  age ; 
these  vices  will  certainly  follow  certain  states  of  poverty 
or  riches,  ignorance  or  high  civilization.  But  what 
these  gentle  alteratives  fail  of  doing  may  be  accom- 
plished by  an  unsuccessful  war,  a  loss  of  trade,  or  any 


2G0 


WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 


of  those  great  calamities  by  which  it  pleases  Providence 
to  speak  to  a  nation  in  snch  language  as  will  be 
heard.  If,  as  a  nation,  we  would  be  cured  of  pride,  it 
must  be  by  mortification ;  if  of  luxury,  by  a  national 
bankruptcy  perhaps ;  if  of  injustice,  or  the  spirit  of 
domination,  by  a  loss  of  national  consequence.  In 
comparison  of  these  strong  remedies,  a  fast  or  a  sermon 
are  prescriptions  of  very  little  efficacy. 


ON   PREJUDICE.  261 


ON  PEEJUDICE. 

IT  is  to  speculative  people,  fond  of  novel  doctrines, 
and  who,  by  accustoming  themselves  to  make .  the 
most  fundamental  truths  the  subject  of  discussion, 
have  divested  their  minds  of  that  reverence  which  is 
generally  felt  for  opinions  and  practices  of  long  stand- 
ing, that  the  world  is  ever  to  look  for  its  improvement 
or.  reformation.  But  it  is  also  these  speculatists  who 
introduce  into  it  absurdities  and  errors  more  gross 
than  any  which  have  been  established  by  that  common 
consent  of  numerous  individuals,  which  opinions  long 
acted  upon  must  have  required  for  their  basis.  For 
systems  of  the  latter  class  must  at  least  possess  one 
property,  —  that  of  being  practicable ;  and  there  is 
likewise  a  presumption  that  they  are,  or  at  least 
originally  were,  useful;  whereas  the  opinions  of  the 
speculatist  may  turn  out  to  be  utterly  incongruous  and 
eccentric.  The  speculatist  may  invent  machines  which 
it  is  impossible  to  put  in  action,  or  which,  when  put  in 
action,  may  possess  the  tremendous  power  of  tearing 
up  society  by  the  roots.  Like  the  chemist,  he  is  not 
sure  in  the  moment  of  projection  whether  he  shall 
blow  up  his  own  dwelling  and  that  of  his  neighbor, 


262 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


or  whether  he  shall  be  rewarded  with  a  discovery 
which  will  secure  the  health  and  prolong  the  existence 
of  future  generations.  It  becomes  us,  therefore,  to 
examine  with  peculiar  care  those  maxims  which,  under 
the  appearance  of  following  a  closer  train  of  reasoning, 
militate  against  the  usual  practices  or  genuine  feelings 
of  mankind.  No  subject  has  been  more  canvassed  than 
education.  With  regard  to  that  important  object, 
there  is  a  maxim  avowed  by  many  sensible  people, 
which  seems  to  me  to  deserve  particular  investigation. 
"  Give  your  child,"  it  is  said,  "  no  prejudices  :  let  reason 
be  the  only  foundation  of  his  opinions;  where  he 
cannot  reason,  let  him  suspend  his  belief.  Let  your 
great  care  be,  that  as  he  grows  up  he  has  nothing  to 
unlearn ;  and  never  make  use  of  authority  in  matters 
of  opinion,  for  authority  is  no  test  of  truth."  The 
maxim  sounds  well,  and  natters  perhaps  the  secret 
pride  of  man,  in  supposing  him  more  the  creature  of 
reason  than  he  really  is ;  but  I  suspect  on  examination 
we  shall  find  it  exceedingly  fallacious.  We  must  first 
consider  what  a  prejudice  is.  A  prejudice  is  a  senti- 
ment in  favor  or  disfavor  of  any  person,  practice,  or 
opinion  previous  to  and  independent  of  examining 
their  merits  by  reason  and  investigation.  Prejudice  is 
prejudging ;  that  is,  judging  previously  to  evidence.  It 
is  therefore  sufficiently  apparent  that  no  philosophical 
belief  can  be  founded  on -mere  prejudice;  because  it  is 


ON   PREJUDICE.  263 

the  business  of  philosophy  to  go  deep  into  the  nature  and 
properties  of  things  ;  nor  can  it  be  allowable  for  those  to 
indulge  prejudice  who  aspire  to  lead  the  public  opinion; 
those  to  whom  the  high  office  is  appointed  of  sifting 
truth  from  error,  of  canvassing  the  claims  of  different 
systems,  of  exploding  old  and  introducing  new  tenets. 
These  must  investigate  with  a  kind  of  audacious  -bold- 
ness  every  subject  that  comes  before  them  ;  these,  neither 
impressed  with  awe  for  all  that  mankind  have  been 
taught  to  reverence,  nor  swayed  by  affection  for  what- 
ever the  sympathies  of  our  nature  incline  us  to  love,  must 
hold  the  balance  with  a  severe  and  steady  hand  while 
they  are  weighing  the  doubtful  scale  of  probabilities, 
and  with  a  stoical  apathy  of  mind  yield  their  assent  to 
nothing  but  a  preponderancy  of  evidence.  But  is  this 
an  office  for  a  child  ?  Is  it  an  office  for  more  than  one 
or  two  men  in  a  century  ?  And  is  it  desirable  that  a 
child  should  grow  up  without  opinions  to  regulate  his 
conduct,  'till  he  is  able  to  form  them  fairly  by  the 
exercise  of  his  own  abilities  ?  Such  an  exercise  re- 
quires at  least  the  sober  period  of  matured  reason: 
reason  not  only  sharpened  by  argumentative  discussion, 
but  informed  by  experience.  The  most  sprightly  child 
can  only  possess  the  former;  for,  let  it  be  remembered 
that,  though  the  reasoning  powers  put  forth  pretty  early 
in  life,  the  faculty  of  using  them  to  effect  does  not  come 
till  much  later.    The  first  efforts  of  a  child  in  reasoning 


264  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

resemble  those  quick  and  desultory  motions  by  which 
he  gains  the  play  of  his  limbs ;  they  show  agility  and 
grace,  they  are  pleasing  to  look  at,  and  necessary  for 
the  gradual  acquirement  of  his  bodily  powers;  but 
his  joints  must  be  knit  into  more  firmness,  and  his 
movements  regulated  with  more  precision,  before  he  is 
capable  of  useful  labor  and  manly  exertion.  A  reason- 
ing child  is  not  yet  a  reasonable  being.  There  is  great 
propriety  in  the  legal  phraseology  which  expresses 
maturity,  not  by  having  arrived  at  the  possession  of 
reason,  but  of  that  power,  the  late  result  of  informa- 
tion, thought,  and  experience,  —  discretion,  which  alone 
teaches,  with  regard  to  reason,  its  powers,  its  limits, 
and  its  use.  This  the  child  of  the  most  sprightly  parts 
cannot  have;  and  therefore  his  attempts  at  reasoning, 
whatever  acuteness  they  may  show,  and  how  much 
soever  they  may  please  a  parent  with  the  early  promise 
of  future  excellence,  are  of  no  account  whatever  in  the 
sober  search  after  truth.  Besides,  taking  it  for  granted 
(which,  however,  is  utterly  impossible)  that  a  youth 
could  be  brought  up  to  the  age  of  fifteen  or  sixteen 
without  prejudice  in  favor  of  any  opinions  whatever, 
and  that  he  is  then  set  to  examine  for  himself  some 
important  proposition,  —  how  is  he  to  set  about  it? 
Who  is  to  recommend  books  to  him  ?  Who  is  to  give 
him  the  previous  information  necessary  to  comprehend 
the  question  ?     Who  is  to  tell  him  whether  or  no  it  is 


ON   PREJUDICE.  265 

important  ?  Whoever  does  these  will  infallibly  lay  a 
bias  upon  his  mind  according  to  the  ideas  he  himself 
has  received  upon  the  subject.  Let  us  suppose  the 
point  in  debate  was  the  preference  between  the  Eoman 
Catholic  and  Protestant  modes  of  religion.  Can  a  youth 
in  a  Protestant  country,  born  of  Protestant  parents, 
with  access,  probably,  to  hardly  a  single  controversial 
book  on  the  Eoman  Catholic  side  of  the  question, — 
can  such  a  one  study  the  subject  without  prejudice  ? 
His  knowledge  of  history,  if  he  has  such  knowledge, 
must,  according  to  the  books  he  has  read,  have  already 
given  him  a  prejudice  on  the  one  side  or  the  other ;  so 
must  the  occasional  conversation  he  has  been  witness 
to,  the  appellations  he  has  heard  used,  the  tone  of 
voice  with  which  he  has  heard  the  words  monk  or  priest 
pronounced,  and  a  thousand  other  evanescent  circum- 
stances. It  is  likewise  to  be  observed,  that  every 
question  of  any  weight  and  importance  has  numerous 
dependencies  and  points  of  connection  with  other 
subjects,  which  make  it  impossible  to  enter  upon  the 
consideration  of  it  without  a  great  variety  of  previous 
knowledge.  There  is  no  object  of  investigation  per- 
fectly insulated ;  we  must  not  conceive  therefore  of  a 
man's  sitting  down  to  it  with  a  mind  perfectly  new  and 
untutored:  he  must  have  passed  more  or  less  through  a 
course  of  studies ;  and,  according  to  the  color  of  those 
studies,  his  mind  will  have  received  a  tincture,  —  that 

VOL.    II.  12 


266 


WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


is,  a  prejudice.  —  But  it  is,  in  truth,  the  most  absurd  of 
all  suppositions,  that  a  human  being  can  be  educated, 
or  even  nourished  and  brought  up,  without  imbibing 
numberless  prejudices  from  everything  which  passes 
around  him.  A  child  cannot  learn  the  signification  of 
words,  without  receiving  ideas  along  with  them ;  he 
cannot  be  impressed  with  affection  to  his  parents  and 
those  about  him,  without  conceiving  a  predilection  for 
their  tastes,  opinions,  and  practices.  He  forms  num- 
berless associations  of  pain  or  pleasure,  and  every 
association  begets  a  prejudice ;  he  sees  objects  from  a 
particular  spot,  and  his  views  of  things  are  contracted 
or  extended  according  to  his  position  in  society :  as  no 
two  individuals  can  have  the  same  horizon,  so  neither 
can  any  two  have  the  same  associations  ;  and  different 
associations  will  produce  different  opinions,  as  neces- 
sarily as,  by  the  laws  of  perspective,  different  distances 
will  produce  different  appearances  of  visible  objects. 
Let  us  confess  a  truth,  humiliating  perhaps  to  human 
pride :  a  very  small  part  only  of  the  opinions  of  the 
coolest  philosopher  are  the  result  of  fair  reasoning; 
the  rest  are  formed  by  his  education,  his  temperament, 
by  the  age  in  which  he  lives,  by  trains  of  thought 
directed  to  a  particular  track  through  some  accidental 
association,  —  in  short,  by  prejudice.  But  why,  after 
all,  should  we  wish  to  bring  up  children  without  preju- 
dices ?      A  child    has  -occasion  to  act  loner  before   he 


OX   PREJUDICE.  267 

can  reason.  Shall  we  leave  him  destitute  of  all  the 
principles  that  should  regulate  Ins  conduct,  till  he  can 
discover  them  by  the  strength  of  his  own  genius  ?  If 
it  were  possible  that  one  whole  generation  could  be 
brought  up  without  prejudices,  the  world  must  return 
to  the  infancy  of  knowledge,  and  all  the  beautiful  fabric 
which  has  been  built  up  by  successive  generations 
must  be  begun  again  from  the  very  foundation.  Your 
child  has  a  claim  to  the  advantage  of  your  experience, 
which  it  would  be  cruel  and  unjust  to  deprive  liim  of. 
Will  any  father  say  to  his  son,  "  My  dear  child,  you 
are  entering  upon  a  world  full  of  intricate  and  per- 
plexed paths,  in  which  many  miss  their  way,  to  their 
final  misery  and  ruin.  Amidst  many  false  systems, 
and  much  vain  science,  there  is  also  some  true  knowl- 
edge ;  there  is  a  right  path  :  I  believe  I  know  it,  for  I 
have  the  advantage  of  years  and  experience,  but  I  will 
instil  no  prejudices  into  your  mind ;  I  shall  therefore 
leave  you  to  find  it  out  as  you  can ;  whether  your 
abilities  are  great  or  small,  you  must  take  the  chance 
of  them.  There  are  various  systems  in  morals ;  I  have 
examined  and  found  some  of  a  good,  others  of  a  bad 
tendency.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  religion;  many 
people  think  it  the  most  important  concern  of  life : 
perhaps  I  am  one  of  them  :  perhaps  I  have  chosen 
from  amidst  the  various  systems  of  belief — many  of 
which  are  extremely  absurd,  and  some  even  pernicious 


268  WORKS    OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

—  that  which  I  cherish  as  the  guide  of  my  life,  my 
comfort  in  all  my  sorrows,  and  the  foundation  of  my 
dearest  hopes  :  but  far  be  it  from  me  to  influence  you 
hi  any  manner  to  receive  it ;  when  you  are  grown  up, 
you  must  read  all  the  books  upon  these  subjects  which 
you  can  lay  your  hands  on,  for  neither  in  the  choice 
of  these  would  I  presume  to  prejudice  your  mind ; 
converse  with  all  who  pretend  to  any  opinions  upon 
the  subject;  and  whatever  happens  to  be  the  result, 
you  must  abide  by  it.  In  the  mean  time,  concerning 
these  important  objects  you  must  keep  your  mind  in 
a  perfect  equilibrium.  It  is  true  you  want  these  prin- 
ciples more  now  than  you  can  do  at  any  other  period 
of  your  life ;  but  I  had  rather  you  never  had  them  at 
all,  than  that  you  should  not  come  fairly  by  them." 
Should  we  commend  the  wisdom  or  the  kindness  of 
such  a  parent  ?  The  parent  will  perhaps  plead,  in  his 
behalf,  that  it  is  by  no  means  his  intention  to  leave 
the  mind  of  his  child  in  the  uncultivated  state  I  have 
supposed.  As  soon  as  his  understanding  begins  to 
open,  he  means  to  discuss  with  him  those  propositions 
on  which  he  wishes  him  to  form  an  opinion.  He  will 
make  him  read  the  best  books  on  the  subject,  and  by 
free  conversation,  and  explaining  the  arguments  on 
both  sides,  he  does  not  doubt  but  the  youth  will  soon 
be  enabled  to  judge  satisfactorily  for  himself.  I  have 
no  objection  to  make  against  this  mode  of  proceeding : 


ON   PREJUDICE.  269 

as  a  mode  of  instruction,  it  is  certainly  a  very  good 
one;  but  he  must  know  little  of  human  nature,  who 
thinks  that  after  this  process  the  youth  will  be  really 
in  a  capacity  of  judging  for  himself,  or  that  he  is  less 
under  the  dominion  of  prejudice  than  if  he  had  received 
the  same  truths  from  the  mere  authority  of  his  parents; 
for  most  assuredly  the  arguments  on  either  side  will 
not  have  been  set  before  him  witb  equal  strength  or 
with  equal  warmth.  The  persuasive;  tone,  the  glowing 
language,  the  triumphant  retort,  wi!X  all  be  reserved 
for  the  side  on  which  the  parent  has  formed  his  own 
conclusions.  It  cannot  be  otherwise;  he  cannot  be 
convinced  himself  of  what  he  thinks  a  truth,  without 
wishing  to  convey  that  conviction,  nor  without  think- 
ing all  that  can  be  urged  on  the  other  side  weak  and 
futile.  He  cannot  in  a  matter  of  importance  neutralize 
his  feelings :  perfect  impartiality  can  be  the  result  only 
of  indifference.  He  does  not  perhaps  seem  to  dictate, 
but  he  wishes  gently  to  guide  his  pupil ;  and  that  wish 
is  seldom  disappointed.  The  child  adopts  the  opinion 
of  his  parent,  and  seems  to  himself  to  have  adopted  it 
from  the  decisions  of  his  own  judgment ;  but  all  these 
reasonings  must  be  gone  over  again,  and  these  opinions 
undergo  a  fiery  ordeal,  if  ever  he  conies  really  to  think 
and  determine  for  himself. 

The  fact  is,  that  no  man,  whatever  his  system  may 
be,  refrains  from  instilling  prejudices  into  his  child  in 


270  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

any  matter  he  has  much  at  heart.  Take  a  disciple  of 
Rousseau,  who  contends  that  it  would  be  very  perni- 
cious to  give  his  son  any  ideas  of  a  Deity  till  he  is  of  an 
age  to  read  Clarke  or  Leibnitz,  and  ask  him  if  he  waits 
so  long  to  impress  on  his  mind  the  sentiments  of 
patriotism,  —  the  civic  affection.  0  no  !  you  wiU  find 
his  little  heart  is  early  taught  to  beat  at  the  very  name 
of  liberty,  and  th  .',  long  before  he  is  capable  of  form- 
ing a  single  politi  al  idea,  he  has  entered  with  warmth 
into  all  the  partjj  sentiments  and  connections  of  his 
parents.  He  learns  to  love  and  hate,  to  venerate  or 
despise,  by  rote ;  and  he  soon  acquires  decided  opinions, 
of  the  real  ground  of  which  he  can  know  absolutely 
nothing.  Are  not  ideas  of  female  honor  and  decorum 
impressed  first  as  prejudices  ;  and  would  any  parent  wish 
they  should  be  so  much  as  canvassed  till  the  most 
settled  habits  of  propriety  have  rendered  it  safe  to  do 
it  ?  In  teaching  first  by  prejudice  that  which  is  after- 
wards to  be  proved,  we  do  but  follow  [Nature.  Instincts 
are  the  prejudices  she  gives  us  :  we  follow  them  im- 
plicitly, and  they  lead  us  right ;  but  it  is  not  till  long 
afterwards  that  reason  comes  and  justifies  them.  Why 
should  we  scruple  to  lead  a  child  to  right  opinions  in 
the  same  way  by  which  Nature  leads  him  to  right 
practices  ! 

Still  it  will  be  urged  that  man  is  a  rational  being, 
and  therefore  reason  is  the  only  true  ground  of  belief, 


ON    PREJUDICE.  271 

and  authority  is  not  reason.  This  point  requires  a 
little  discussion.  That  he  who  receives  a  truth  upon 
authority  has  not  a  reasonable  belief  is  in  one  sense  true, 
since  he  has  not  drawn  it  from  the  result  of  his  own 
inquiries ;  but  in  another  it  is  certainly  false,  since  the 
authority  itself  may  be  to  him  the  best  of  all  reasons 
for  believing  it.  There  are  few  men  who,  from  the 
exercise  of  the  best  powers  of  their  minds,  could  derive 
so  good  a  reason  for  believing  a  mathematical  truth  as 
the  authority  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton.  There  are  two 
principles  deeply  implanted  in  the  mind  of  man,  with- 
out which  he  could  never  attain  knowledge, —  curiosity 
and  credulity;  the  former  to  lead  him  to  make  dis- 
coveries himself,  the  latter  to  dispose  him  to  receive 
knowledge  from  others.  The  credulity  of  a  child  to 
those  who  cherish  him  is  in  early  life  unbounded. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  useful  instincts  he  has,  and 
is,  in  fact,  a  precious  advantage  put  into  the  hands 
of  the  parent  for  storing  his  mind  with  ideas  of  all 
kinds.  Without  this  principle  of  assent  he  could  never 
gain  even  the  rudiments  of  knowledge.  He  receives 
it,  it  is  true,  in  the  shape  of  prejudice ;  but  the 
prejudice  itself  is  founded  upon  sound  reasoning,  and 
conclusive  though  imperfect  experiment.  He  finds 
himself  weak,  helpless,  and  ignorant;  he  sees  in  his 
parent  a  being  of  knowledge  and  powers  more  than 
his  utmost  capacity  can  fathom,  —  almost  a  god  to  him. 


272  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAL'LD. 

He  has  often  done  him  good,  therefore  he  believes  he 
loves  him ;  he  finds  him  capable  of  giving  him  infor- 
mation npon  all  the  subjects  he  has  applied  to  him 
about ;  his  knowledge  seems  unbounded,  and  his  in- 
formation has  led  him  right  whenever  he  has  had 
occasion  to  try  it  by  actual  experiment :  the  child  does 
not  draw  out  his  little  reasonings  into  a  logical  form, 
but  this  is  to  him  a  ground  of  belief,  that  his  parent 
knows  everything,  and  is  infallible.  Though  the  propo- 
sition is  not  exactly  true,  it  is  sufficiently  so  for  him 
to  act  upon :  and  when  he  believes  in  his  parent  with 
implicit  faith,  he  believes  upon  grounds  as  truly  rational 
as  when,  in  after  life,  he  follows  the  deductions  of  his 
own  reason. 

But  you  will  say,  I  wish  my  son  may  have  nothing  to 
unlearn,  and  therefore  I  would  have  him  wait  to  form 
an  opinion  till  he  is  able  to  do  it  on  solid  grounds.  And 
why  do  you  suppose  he  will  have  less  to  unlearn  if  he 
follows  his  own  reason  than  if  he  followed  yours  ?  If 
he  thinks,  if  he  inquires,  he  will  no  doubt  have  a  great 
deal  to  unlearn,  whichever  course  you  take  with  him  ; 
but  it  is  better  to  have  some  things  to  unlearn  than  to 
have  nothing  learned.  Do  you  hold  your  own  opinions 
so  loosely,  so  hesitatingly,  as  not  to  think  them  safer 
to  abide  by  than  the  first  results  of  his  stammering 
reason?  Are  there  no  truths  to  learn  so  indubitable 
as  to  be  without  fear  of  their  not -approving  themselves 


ON    PREJUDICE.  273 

to  his  mature  and  well-directed  judgment  ?  Are  there 
none  you  esteem  so  useful  as  to  feel  anxious  that  he  be 
put  in  possession  of  them  ?  We  are  solicitous  not  only 
to  put  our  children  in  a  capacity  of  acquiring  their 
daily  bread,  but  to  bequeath  to  them  riches  which  they 
may  receive  as  an  inheritance.  Have  you  no  mental 
wealth  you  wish  to  transmit,  no  stock  of  ideas  he  may 
begin  with,  instead  of  drawing  them  all  from  the  labor  of 
his  own  brain  ?  If,  moreover,  your  son  should  not  adopt 
your  prejudices,  he  will  certainly  adopt  those  of  other 
people ;  or,  if  on  subjects  of  high  interest  he  could  be 
kept  totally  indifferent,  the  consequence  would  be,  that 
he  would  conceive  either  that  such  matters  were  not 
worth  the  trouble  of  inquiry,  or  that  nothing  satisfac- 
tory was  to  be  learned  about  them  :  for  there  are  nega- 
tive prejudices  -as  well  as  positive. 

Let  parents,  therefore,  not  scruple  to  use  the  power 
God  and  Nature  have  put  into  their  hands  for  the 
advantage  of  their  offspring.  Let  them  not  fear  to 
impress  them  with  prejudices  for  whatever  is  fair  and 
honorable  in  action, — whatever  is  useful  and  important 
in  systematic  truth.  Let  such  prejudices  be  wrought 
into  the  very  texture  of  the  soul.  Such  truths  let 
them  appear  to  know  by  intuition.  Let  the  child 
never  remember  the  period  when  he  did  not  know 
them.  Instead  of  sending  him  to  that  cold  and  hesi- 
tating belief  which   is   founded   on    the   painful   and 

12*  E 


274  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

uncertain  consequences  of  late  investigation,  let  his 
conviction  of  all  the  truths  you  deem  important  be 
mixed  up  with  every  warm  affection  of  his  nature,  and 
identified  with  his  most  cherished  recollections ;  the 
time  will  come  soon  enough  when  his  confidence  in 
you  will  have  received  a  check.  The  growth  of  his  own 
reason  and  the  development  of  his  powers  will  lead 
him  with  a  sudden  impetus  to  examine  everything,  to 
canvass  everything,  to  suspect  everything.  If  he  finds, 
as  he  certainly  will  find,  the  results  of  his  reasoning 
different  in  some  respects  from  those  you  have  given 
him,  far  from  being  now  disposed  to  receive  your  asser- 
tions as  proofs,  he  will  rather  feel  disinclined  to  any 
opinion  you  profess,  and  struggle  to  free  himself  from 
the  net  you  have  woven  about  hini 

The  calm  repose  of  his  mind  is  broken,  the  placid 
lake  is  become  turbid,  and  reflects  distorted  and  broken 
images  of  thins^ ;  but  be  not  you  alarmed  at  the  new 
workings  of  his  thoughts.  —  it  is  the  angel  of  reason 
which  descends  and  troubles  the  waters.  To  endeavor 
to  influence  by  authority  would  be  as  useless  now  as  it 
was  salutary  before.  Lie  by  in  silence,  and  wait  the 
result.  Do  not  expect  the  mind  of  your  son  is  to 
resemble  yours,  as  your  figure  is  reflected  by  the  image 
in  the  glass ;  he  was  formed,  like  you,  to  use  his  own 
judgment,  and  he  claims  the  high  privilege  of  his 
nature.     His   reason  is  mature,  his   mind   must    now 


OX   PREJUDICE.  275 

form  itself.  Happy  must  you  esteem  yourself,  if  amidst 
all  lesser  differences  of  opinion,  and  the  wreck  of  many 
of  your  favorite  ideas,  he  still  preserves  those  radical 
and  primary  truths  which  are  essential  to  his  hap- 
piness, and  which  different  trains  of  thought  and 
opposite  modes  of  investigation  will  very  often  equally 
lead  to. 

Let  it  be  well  remembered  that  we  have  only  been 
recommending  those  prejudices  which  go  before  reason, 
not  those  which  are  contrary  to  it.  To  endeavor  to 
make  children,  or  others  over  whom  we  have  influence, 
receive  systems  which  we  do  not  believe,  merely  be- 
cause it  is  convenient  to  ourselves  that  they  should 
Relieve  them,  though  a  very  fashionable  practice,  makes 
no  part  of  the  discipline  we  plead  for.  These  are  not 
prejudices,  but  impositions.  We  may  also  grant  that 
nothing  should  be  received  as  a  prejudice  which  can 
be  easily  made  the  subject  of  experiment.  A  child 
may  be  allowed  to  find  out  for  himself  that  boiling 
water  will  scald  his  fingers  and  mustard  bite  his 
tongue ;  but  he  must  be  prejudiced  against  ratsbane, 
because  the  experiment  would  be  too  costly.  In  like 
manner  it  may  do  him  good  to  have  experienced  that 
little  instances  of  inattention  or  perverseness  draw, 
upon  him  the  displeasure  of  his  parent;  but  that 
profligacy  is  attended  with  loss  of  character  is  a  truth 
one  would  rather  wish  him  to  take  upon  trust. 


276 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


There  is  no  occasion  to  inculcate  by  prejudices  those 
truths  which  it  is  of  no  importance  for  us  to  know  till 
our  powers  are  able  to  investigate  them.  Thus  the 
metaphysical  questions  of  space  and  time,  necessity 
and  free-will,  and  a  thousand  others,  may  safely  be  left 
for  that  age  which  delights  in  such  discussions.  They 
have  no  connection  with  conduct ;  and  none  have  any 
business  with  them  at  all  but  those  who  are  able  by 
such  studies  to  exercise  and  sharpen  their  mental 
powers :  but  it  is  not  so  with  those  truths  on  which 
our  well-being  depends ;  these  must  be  taught  to  all, 
not  only  before  they  can  reason  upon  them,  but  in- 
dependently of  the  consideration  whether  they  will 
ever  be  able  to  reason  upon  them  as  long  as  they  live. 
What  has  hitherto  been  said  relates  only  to  instilling 
prejudices  into  others  ;  how  far  a  man  is  to  allow  them 
in  himself,  or,  as  a  celebrated  writer  expresses  it,  to 
cherish  them,  is  a  different  question,  on  which  perhaps 
I  may  some  time  offer  my  thoughts.  In  the  mean  time 
I  cannot  help  concluding,  that  to  reject  the  influence 
of  prejudice  in  education  is  itself  one  of  the  most 
unreasonable  •  of  prejudices. 


ON   FEMALE   STUDIES.  277 


ON    FEMALE   STUDIES. 
LETTER   I. 

MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIEND,  —  If  I  had  not 
been  afraid  you  would  feel  some  little  reluc- 
tance in  addressing  me  first,  I  should  have  asked  you 
to  begin  the  correspondence  between  us;  for  I  am  at 
present  ignorant  of  your  particular  pursuits.  I  cannot 
guess  whether  you  are  climbing  the  hill  of  science,  or 
wandering  among  the  flowers  of  fancy ;  whether  you 
are  stretching  your  powers  to  embrace  the  planetary 
system,  or  examining  with  a  curious  eye  the  delicate 
veining  of  a  green  leaf  and  the  minute  ramifications 
of  a  sea- weed ;  or  whether  you  are  toiling  through  the 
intricate  and  thorny  mazes  of  grammar.  "Whichever 
of  these  is  at  present  your  employment,  your  general 
aim,  no  doubt,  is  the  improvement  of  your  mind  ;  and 
we  will  therefore  spend  some  time  in  considering  what 
kind  and  degree  of  literary  attainments  sit  gracefully 
upon  the  female  character. 

Every  woman  should  consider  herself  as  sustaining 
the  general  character  of  a  rational  being,  as  well  as  the 
more  confined  one  belonging  to  the  female  sex ;  and 
therefore  the  motives  for  acquiring  general  knowledge 


278  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

and  cultivating  the  taste  are  nearly  the  same  to  both 
sexes.  The  line  of  separation  between  the  studies  of 
a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  appears  to  me  to  be 
chiefly  fixed  by  this,  —  that  a  woman  is  excused  from 
all  professional  Knowledge.  Professional  knowledge 
means  all  that  is  necessary  to  fit  a  man  for  a  peculiar 
profession  or  business.  Thus  men  study  in  order  to 
qualify  themselves  for  the  law,  for  physic,  for  various 
departments  in  political  life,  for  instructing  others  from 
the  pulpit  or  the  professor's  chair.  These  all  require 
a  great  deal  of  severe  study  and  technical  knowledge ; 
much  of  which  is  nowise  valuable  in  itself,  but  as  a 
means  to  that  particular  profession.  Now,  as  a  woman 
can  never  be  called  to  any  of  these  professions,  it  is 
evident  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  such  studies. 
A  voman  is  not  expected  to  understand  the  myste- 
ries of  politics,  because  she  is  not  called  to  govern; 
she  is  not  required  to  know  anatomy,  because  she  is 
not  to  perform  surgical  operations;  she  need  not  em- 
barrass herself  with  theological  disputes,  because  she 
will  neither  be  called  upon  to  make  nor  to  explain 
creeds. 

Men  have  various  departments  in  active  life  ;  women 
have  but  one,  and  all  women  have  the  same,  differently 
modified  indeed  by  their  rank  in  life  and  other  inci- 
dental circumstances.  It  is  to  be  a  wife,  a  mother,  a 
mistress   of  a  family.      The   knowledge   belonging  to 


ON   FEMALE   STUDIES.  279 

these  duties  is  your  professional  knowledge,  the  want 
of  which  nothing  will  excuse.      Literary  knowledge, 
therefore,  in  men,  is  often  an  indispensable  duty ;  in 
women,  it  can  be  only  a  desirable  accomplishment.     In 
women  it  is  more  immediately  applied  to  the  purposes 
of  adorning  and  improving  the  mind,  of  refining  the  sen- 
timents, and  supplying  proper  stores  for  conversation. 
For  general  knowledge  women  have,  in  some  respects, 
more  advantages  than  men.      Their  avocations  often 
allow  them  more  leisure ;  their  sedentary  way  of  life 
disposes  them  to  the  domestic,  quiet   amusement  of 
reading ;  the  share  they  take  in  the  education  of  their 
children  throws  them  in  the  way  of  books.     The  uni- 
form tenor  and  confined  circle  of  their  lives  makes 
them  eager  to  diversify  the  scene  by  descriptions  which 
open  to  them  a  new  world ;  and  they  are  eager  to  gain 
an  idea  of  scenes  on  the  busy  stage  of  life  from  which 
they  are  shut  out  by  their  sex.     It  is  likewise  particu- 
larly desirable  for  women  to  be  able  to  give  spirit  and 
variety  to  conversation  by  topics  drawn  from  the  stores 
of  literature,  as  the  broader  mirth  and  more  boisterous 
gayety  of  the  other  sex  are  to  them  prohibited.     As 
their  parties  must  be  innocent,  care  should  be  taken 
that  they  do  not  stagnate  into  insipidity.     I  will  ven- 
ture to  add  that  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  heart 
which  a  woman  ought  never,  in  her  freest  commerce 
with  the  world,  to  wear  off,  her  very  seclusion  from 


280  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  jarring  interests  and  coarser  amusements  of  society, 
fit  her  in  a  peculiar  manner  for  the  worlds  of  fancy 
and  sentiment,  and  dispose  her  to  the  quickest  relish 
of  what  is  pathetic,  sublime,  or  tender.  To  you,  there- 
fore, the  beauties  of  poetry,  of  moral  painting,  and  all, 
in  general,  that  is  comprised  under  the  term  of  polite 
literature,  lie  particularly  open,  and  you  cannot  neg- 
lect them  without  neglecting  a  very  copious  source  of 
enjoyment. 

Languages  are  on  some  accounts  particularly  adapted 
to  female  study,  as  they  may  be  learned  at  home  without 
experiments  or  apparatus,  and  without  interfering  with 
the  habits  of  domestic  life ;  as  they  form  the  style,  and 
as  they  are  the  immediate  inlet  to  works  of  taste.  But 
the  learned  languages,  the  Greek  especially,  require  a 
great  deal  more  time  than  a  young  woman  can  con- 
veniently spare.  To  the  Latin-  there  is  not  an  equal 
objection ;  and  if  a  young  person  has  leisure,  has  an 
opportunity  of  learning  it  at  home  by  being  connected 
with  literary  people,  and  is  placed  in  a  circle  of  society 
sufficiently  liberal  to  allow  her  such  an  accomplishment, 
I  do  not  see,  if  she  has  a  strong  inclination,  why  she 
should  not  make  herself  mistress  of  so  rich  a  store  of 
original  entertainment :  it  will  not  in  the  present  state 
of  things  excite  either  a  smile  or  a  stare  in  fashionable 
company.  To  those  who  do  not  intend  to  learn  the 
language,  I  would  strongly  recommend  the  learning  so 


ON  FEMALE   STUDIES.  281 

much  of  the  grammar  of  it  as  will  explain  the  name 
and  nature  of  cases,  genders,  inflection  of  verbs,  etc. ; 
of  which,  having  only  the  imperfect  rudiments  in  our 
own  language,  a  mere  English  scholar  can  with  dif- 
ficulty form  a  clear  idea.  This  is  the  more  necessary, 
as  all  our  grammars,  being  written  by  men  whose  early 
studies  had  given  them  a  partiality  for  the  learned  lan- 
guages, are  formed  more  upon  those  than  upon  the  real 
genius  of  our  own  tongue. 

I  was  going  now  to  mention  French,  but  perceive  I 
have  written  a  letter  long  enough  to  frighten  a  young 
correspondent,  and  for  the  present  I  bid  you  adieu. 


LETTER  IT. 


French  you  are  not  only  permitted  to  learn,  but  you 
are  laid  under  the  same  necessity  of  acquiring  it  as 
your  brother  is  of  acquiring  Latin.  Custom  has  made 
the  one  as  much  expected  from  an  accomplished  woman, 
as  the  other  from  a  man  who  has  had  a  liberal  educa- 
tion. The  learning  French,  or  indeed  any  language 
completely,  includes  reading,  writing,  and  speaking  it. 
But  here  I  must  take  the  liberty  to  offer  my  ideas, 
which  differ  something  from  those  generally  enter- 
tained, and  you  will  give  them  what  weight  you  think 
they  deserve.     It  seems  to  me  that  the  efforts  of  young 


282 


WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


ladies  in  learning  French  are  generally  directed  to  what 
is  unattainable  ;  and  if  attained,  not  very  useful,  —  the 
speaking  it.  It  is  utterly  impossible,  without  such  ad- 
vantages as  few  enjoy,  to  speak  a  foreign  language  with 
fluency  and  a  proper  accent ;  and  if  even  by  being  in 
a  French  family  some  degree  of  both  is  attained,  it  is 
soon  lost  by  mixing  with  the  world  at  large.  As  to 
the  French  which  girls  are  obliged  to  speak  at  boarding- 
schools,  it  does  very  well  to  speak  in  England,  but  at 
Paris  it  would  probably  be  less  understood  than  English 
itself. 

I  do  not  mean  by  this  to  say  that  the  speaking  of 
French  is  not  a  very  elegant  accomplishment ;  and  to 
those  who  mean  to  spend  some  time  in  France,  or  who, 
being  in  very  high  life,  often  see  foreigners  of  distinc- 
tion, it  may  be  necessary ;  but  in  common  life  it  is  very 
little  so :  and  for  English  people  to  meet  together  to 
talk  a  foreign  language  is  truly  absurd.  There  is  a  sar- 
casm against  this  practice  as  old  as  Chaucer's  time :  — 

" .  .  .  .  Frenche  she  spake  fill  fa}Te  and  fetisely, 
After  the  schole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 
For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  her  unknowe." 


But  with  regard  to  reading  French,  the  many  charm- 
ing publications  in  that  language,  particularly  in  polite 
literature,  of  which  you  can  have  no  adequate  idea 
by  translation,  render  it  a  very  desirable  acquisition. 


ON   FEMALE   STUDIES.  283 

"Writing  it  is  not  more  useful  in  itself  than  speaking, 
except  a  person  has  foreign  letters  to  write ;  but  it  is 
necessary  for  understanding  the  language  grammati- 
cally and  fixing  the  rules  in  -the  mind.  A  young  per- 
son who  reads  French  with  ease  and  is  so  well  grounded 
as  to  write  it  grammatically,  and  has  what  I  should 
call  a  good  English  pronunciation  of  it,  will,  by  a  short 
residence  in  France,  gain  fluency  and  the  accent ; 
whereas  one  not  grounded  would  soon  forget  all  she 
had  learned,  though  she  had  acquired  some  fluency  in 
speaking.  For  speaking,  therefore,  love  and  cultivate 
your  own :  know  all  its  elegancies,  its  force,  its  happy 
turns  of  expression,  and  possess  yourself  of  all  its 
riches.  In  foreign  languages  you  have  only  to  learn ; 
but  with  regard  to  your  own  you  have  probably  to 
unlearn,  and  to  avoid  vulgarisms  and  provincial  bar- 
barisms. 

If,  after  you  have  learned  French,  you  should  wish 
to  add  Italian,  the  acquisition  will  not  be  difficult.  It 
is  valuable  on  account  of  its  poetry  —  in  which  it  far 
excels  the  French  —  and  its  music.  The  other  modern 
languages  you  will  hardly  attempt,  except  led  to  them 
by  some  peculiar  bent. 

History  affords  a  wide  field  of  entertaining  and  use- 
ful reading.  The  chief  thing  to  be  attended  to  in 
studying  it  is  to  gain  a  clear,  well-arranged  idea  of 
facts  in  chronological  order,  and  illustrated  by  a  knowl- 


284 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


edge  of  the  places  where  such  facts  happened.  Xever 
read  without  tables  and  maps  :  make  abstracts  of  what 
you  read.  Before  you  embarrass  yourself  in  the  detail 
of  this,  endeavor  to  fix  well  in  your  mind  the  arrange- 
ment of  some  leading  facts  which  may  serve  as  land- 
marks to  which  to  refer  the  rest.  Connect  the  history 
of  different  countries  together.  In  the  study  of  history 
the  different  genius  of  a  woman,  I  imagine,  will  show 
itself.  The  detail  of  battles,  the  art  of  sieges,  will  not 
interest  her  so  much  as  manners  and  sentiment ;  this 
is  the  food  she  assimilates  to  herself. 

The  great  laws  of  the  universe,  the  nature  and  prop- 
erties of  those  objects  which  surround  us,  it  is  unpar- 
donable not  to  know :  it  is  more  unpardonable  to  know, 
and  not  to  feel  the  mind  struck  with  lively  gratitude. 
Under  this  head  are  comprehended  natural  history, 
astronomy,  botany,  experimental  philosophy,  chemistry, 
physics.  In  these  you  will  rather  take  what  belongs 
to  sentiment  and  to  utility  than  abstract  calculations 
or  difficult  problems.  You  must  often  be  content  to 
know  a  thing  is  so,  without  understanding  the  proof. 
It  belongs  to  a  Xewton  to  prove  his  sublime  problems, 
but  we  may  all  be  made  acquainted  with  the  result. 
You  cannot  investigate  ;  you  may  remember.  This 
will  teach  you  not  to  despise  common  things;  will 
give  you  an  interest  in  everything  you  see.  If  you  are 
feeding  your  poultry,  or  tending  your  bees,  or  extract- 


ON   FEMALE   STUDIES.  285 

ing  the  juice  of  herbs,  with  an  intelligent  mind,  you 
are  gaining  real  knowledge ;  it  will  open  to  you  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  wonder  and  delight,  and  effectu- 
ally prevent  you  from  depending  for  your  entertain- 
ment on  the  poor  novelties  of  fashion  and  expense. 

But  of  all  reading,  what  most  ought  to  engage  your 
attention  are  works  of  sentiment  and  morals.  Morals 
is  that  study  in  which  alone  both  sexes  have  an  equal 
interest ;  and  in  sentiment  yours  has  even  the  advan- 
tage. The  works  of  this  kind  often  appear  under  the 
seducing  form  of  novel  and  romance  :  here,  great  care 
and  the  advice  of  your  older  friends  is  requisite  in  the 
selection.  Whatever  is  true,  however  uncouth  in  the 
manner  or  dry  in  the  subject,  has  a  value  from  being 
true ;  but  fiction  in  order  to  recommend  itself  must  give 
us  la  telle  Nature.  You  will  find  fewer  plays  fit  for  your 
perusal  thau  novels,  and  fewer  comedies  than  tragedies. 

What  particular  share  any  one  of  the  studies  I  have 
mentioned  may  engage  of  your  attention  will  be  deter- 
mined by  your  peculiar  turn  and  bent  of  mind.  But 
I  shall  conclude  with  observing  that  a  woman  ought 
to  have  that  general  tincture  of  them  all  which  marks 
the  cultivated  mind.  She  ought  to  have  enough  of 
them  to  engage  gracefully  in  general  conversation.  In 
no  subject  is  she  required  to  be  deep,  —  of  none  ought 
she  to  be  ignorant.  If  she  knows  not  enough  to  speak 
well,  she  should  know  enough  to  keep  her  from  speak- 


286 


WOKKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


ing  at  all ;  enough  to  feel  her  ground  and  prevent  her 
from  exposing  her  ignorance  ;  enough  to  hear  with 
intelligence,  to  ask  questions  with  propriety,  and  to 
receive  information  where  she  is  not  qualified  to  give 
it.  A  woman  who  to  a  cultivated  mind  joins  that 
quickness  of  intelligence  and  delicacy  of  taste  which 
such  a  woman  often  possesses  in  a  superior  degree, 
with  that  nice  sense  of  propriety  which  results  from 
the  whole,  will  have  a  kind  of  tact  by  which  she  will 
be  able  on  all  occasions  to  discern  between  pretenders 
to  science  and  men  of  real  merit.  On  subjects  upon 
which  she  cannot  talk  herself,  she  will  know  whether 
a  man  talks  with  knowledge  of  his  subject.  She  will 
not  judge  of  systems,  but  by  their  systems  she  will  be 
able  to  judge  of  men.  She  will  distinguish  the  modest, 
the  dogmatical,  the  affected,  the  over-refined,  and  give 
her  esteem  and  confidence  accordingly.  She  wrill  know 
with  whom  to  confide  the  education  of  her  children, 
and  how  to  judge  of  their  progress  and  the  methods 
used  to  improve  them.  From  books,  from  conversation, 
from  learned  instructors,  she  will  gather  the  flower  of 
every  science  ;  and  her  mind,  in  assimilating  every- 
thing to  itself,  will  adorn  it  with  new  graces.  She  will 
give  the  tone  to  the  conversation  even  when  she  chooses 
to  bear  but  an  inconsiderable  part  in  it.  The  modesty 
which  prevents  her  from  an  unnecessary  display  .of 
what  she  knows,  will  cause  it  to  be  supposed  that  her 


ON   FEMALE   STUDIES.  287 

knowledge  is  deeper  than  in  reality  it  is  :  as  when  the 
landscape  is  seen  through  the  veil  of  a  mist,  the  bounds 
of  the  horizon  are  hid.  As  she  will  never  obtrude  her 
knowledge,  none  will  ever  be  sensible  of  any  deficiency 
in  it,  and  her  silence  will  seem  to  proceed  from  discre- 
tion rather  than  a  want  of  information.  She  will  seem 
to  know  everything  by  leading  every  one  to  speak  of 
what  he  knows ;  and  when  she  is  with  those  to  whom 
she  can  give  no  real  information,  she  will  yet  delight 
them  by  the  original  turns  of  thought  and  sprightly 
elegance  which  will  attend  her  manner  of  speaking  on 
any  subject.  Such  is  the  character  to  whom  professed 
scholars  will  delight  to  give  information,  from  whom 
others  will  equally  delight  to  receive  it :  —  the  character 
I  wish  you  to  become,  and  to  form  which  your  applica- 
tion must  be  directed. 


288 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


ON  THE   CLASSICS. 


THE  authors  known  by  the  name  of  the  Greek  and 
Eoman  Classics  have  laid  the  foundation  of  all 
that  is  excellent  in  modern  literature ;  and  are  so  fre- 
quently referred  to  both  in  books  and  conversation, 
that  a  person  of  a  cultivated  mind  cannot  easily  be 
content  without  obtaining  some  knowledge  of  them, 
even  though  he  should  not  be  able  to  read  them  in 
their  original  tongues.  A  clear  and  short  account  of 
these  authors  in  a  chronological  series,  together  with 
a  sketch  of  the  character  of  their  several  productions, 
for  the  use  of  those  who  have  either  none  or  a  very 
superficial  knowledge  of  the  languages  they  are  written 
in,  is,  as  far  as  I  know,  a  desideratum  which  it  is  much 
to  be  wished  that  some  elegant  scholar  should  supply : 
in  the  mean  time  a  few  general  remarks  upon  them 
may  be  not  unacceptable. 

In  the  larger  sense  of  the  word,  an  author  is  called 
a  Classic  when  his  work  has  stood  the  test  of  time 
long  enough  to  become  a  permanent  part  of  the  lit- 
erature of  his  country.  Of  the  number  of  writings 
which  in  their  day  have  attained  a  portion  of  fame, 


ON   THE   CLASSICS.  289 

very  few  in  any  age  have  survived  to  claim  this  honor- 
able distinction.  Every  circumstance  which  gave  tem- 
porary celebrity  must  be  forgotten;  party  must  have 
subsided ;  the  voice  of  friends  and  of  enemies  must 
be  silent;  and  the  writer  himself  must  have  long 
mouldered  in  the  dust,  before  the  gates  of  immortality 
are  opened  to  him.  It  is  in  vain  that  he  attempts  to 
natter  or  to  soothe  his  contemporaries,  they  are  not 
called  to  the  decision  ;  his  merits  are  to  be  determined 
by  a  race  he  has  never  seen ;  the  judges  are  not  yet 
born  who  are  to  pronounce  on  the  claims  of  Darwin 
and  of  Cowper.  The  severe  impartiality  of  Posterity 
stands  aloof  from  every  consideration  but  that  of  ex- 
cellence, and  from  her  verdict  there  is  no  appeal. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  amidst  the  revolutions  of  ages, 
particularly  before  the  invention  of  printing,  accidental 
circumstances  must  often  have  had  great  influence  in 
the  preservation  of  particular  writings ;  and  we  know 
and  lament  that  many  are  lost  which  the  learned  world 
would  give  treasures  of  gold  to  recover.  But  it  cannot 
easily  happen  that  a  work  should  be  preserved  without 
superior  merit;  and  indeed  we  know  from  the  testi- 
mony of  antiquity,  that  the  works  which  have  come 
down  to  us,  and  which  we  read  and  admire,  are  in  gen- 
eral the  very  works  which  by  the  Greeks  and  Eomans 
themselves  were  esteemed  most  excellent. 

It  is  impossible  to  contemplate  without  a  sentiment 

VOL.    II.  13  S 


290  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

of  reverence  and  enthusiasm  these  venerable  writings 
which  have  survived  the  wreck  of  empires ;  and,  what 
is  more,  of  languages  which  have  received  the  awful 
stamp  of  immortality,  and  are  crowned  with  the  ap- 
plause of  so  many  successive  ages.  It  is  wonderful 
that  words  should  live  so  much  longer  than  marble  tem- 
ples;—  words,  winch  at  first  are  only  uttered  breath; 
and,  when  afterwards  enshrined  and  fixed  in  a  visible 
form  by  the  admirable  invention  of  writing,  committed 
to  such  frail  and  perishable  materials  :  yet  the  light 
paper  bark  floats  down  the  stream  of  time,  and  lives 
through  the  storms  which  have  sunk  so  many  stronger- 
built  vessels.  Homer  is  read,  though  the  grass  now 
grows  vslxcrc  Troy  town  stood:  and  nations  once  despised 
as  barbarous  appreciate  the  merit. of  Cicero's  orations 
on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  when  the  long  honors  of 
the  Consulate  are  vanished,  and  the  language  of  Eome 
is  no  longer  spoken  on  the  shores  of  the  Tiber. 

Still  green  with  bays  each  ancient  altar  stands, 

Above  the  reach  of  sacrilegious  hands ; 

Secure  from  flames,  from  envy's  fiercer  rage, 

Destructive  war  and  all-involving  age. 

See  from  each  clime  the  learn'd  their  incense  bring, 

Hear  in  all  tougues  consenting  Pseans  ring  ! 

It  is  owing  to  the  preservation  of  a  few  books  of  the 
kind  we  are  speaking  of,  that  at  the  revival  of  letters 
the  world  had  not  to  go  back  to  the  very  beginnings  of 


ON   THE   CLASSICS.  291 

science.  When  the  storm  of  barbaric  rage  had  passed 
over  and  spent  itself,  they  were  drawn  from  the  mould 
of  ruins  and  dust  of  convents,  and  were  of  essential 
service  in  forming  our  taste  and  giving  a  direction 
to  the  recovered  energies  of  the  human  mind.  Oral 
instruction  can  benefit  but  one  age  and  one  set  of 
hearers ;  but  these  silent  teachers  address  all  ages  and 
all  nations.  They  may  sleep  for  a  while  and  be 
neglected;  but  whenever  the  desire  of  information 
springs  up  in  the  human  breast,  there  they  are  with 
their  mild  wisdom  ready  to  instruct  and  please  us. 
The  Philosopher  opens  again  his  school ;  his  maxims 
have  lost  nothing  of  their  truth :  the  harmony  of  the 
Poet's  numbers,  though  locked  up  for  a  time,  becomes 
again  vocal,  and  we  find  that  what  was  nature  and 
passion  two  thousand  years  ago  is  nature  and  passion 
still. 

Books  are  a  kind  of  perpetual  censors  on  men  and 
manners;  they  judge  without  partiality,  and  reprove 
without  fear  or  affection.  There  are  times  when  the 
flame  of  virtue  and  liberty  seems  almost  to  be  extin- 
guished amongst  the  existing  generation ;  but  their 
animated  pages  are  always  at  hand  to  rekindle  it.  The 
despot  trembles  on  his  throne,  and  the  bold  bad  man 
turns  pale  in  his  closet  at  the  sentence  pronounced 
against  him  ages  before  he  was  born. 

In  addition  to  their  intrinsic  value    there   is  much 


292  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

incidental  entertainment  in  consulting  authors  who 
flourished  at  so  remote  a  period.  Every  little  circum- 
stance becomes  curious  as  we  discover  allusions  to 
customs  now  obsolete,  or  draw  indications  of  the 
temper  of  the  times  from  the  various  slight  hints  and 
casual  pieces  of  information  which  may  be  gathered 
up  by  the  ingenious  critic.  Sometimes  we  have  the 
pleasure  of  being  admitted  into  the  cabinet  of  a  great 
man,  and  leaning  as  it  were  over  his  shoulder  while 
he  is  pouring  hiinself  out  in  the  freedom  of  a  confidential 
intercourse  which  was  never  meant  to  meet  the  eye 
even  of  his  contemporaries.  At  another  time  we  are 
delighted  to  witness  the  conscious  triumph  of  a  genius 
who,  with  a  generous  confidence  in  his  powers,  prophe- 
sies his  own  immortality,  and  to  feel,  as  we  read,  that  his 
proud  boast  has  not  been  too  presumptuous.  Another 
advantage  of  reading  the  ancients  is,  that  we  trace  the 
stream  of  ideas  to  their  spring.  It  is  always  best  to 
go  to  the  fountain-head.  We  can  never  have  a  just 
idea  of  the  comparative  merit  of  the  moderns,  without 
knowing  how  much  they  have  derived  from  imitation. 
It  is  amusing  to  follow  an  idea  from  century  to  cen- 
tury, and  observe  the  gradual  accession  of  thought  and 
sentiment ;  to  see  the  jewels  of  the  ancients  new  set, 
and  the  wit  of  Horace  sparkling  with  additional  lustre 
in  the  lines  of  Pope. 

The  real  sources  of  history  can  only  be  known  by 


ON   THE   CLASSICS. 


293 


some  acquaintance  with  the  original  authors.  This 
indeed  will  often  be  found  to  betray  the  deficiency  of 
our  documents,  and  the  difficulty  of  reconciling  jarring 
accounts.  It  will  sometimes  unclothe  and  exhibit  in 
its  original  bareness  what  the  art  of  the  moderns  has 
dressed  up  and  rounded  into  form.  It  will  show  the 
unsightly  chasms  and  breaks  which  the  modern  com- 
piler passes  over  with  a  light  foot,  and  perhaps  make 
us  sceptical  with  regard  to  many  particulars  of  which 
we  formerly  thought  we  had  authentic  information. 
But  it  is  always  good  to  know  the  real  measure  of  our 
knowledge.  That  knowledge  would  be  greater,  if  the 
treasures  of  antiquity  had  come  to  us  undiminished; 
but  this  is  not  the  case.  Besides  the  loss  of  many 
mentioned  with  honor  by  their  contemporaries,  few 
authors  are  come  down  to  us  entire ;  and  of  some 
exquisite  productions  only  fragments  are  extant.  The 
full  stream  of  narration  is  sometimes  suddenly  checked 
at  the  most  interesting  period,  and  the  sense  of  a 
brilliant  passage  is  clouded  by  the  obscurity  of  a  single 
word.  The  literary  productions  are  come  to  us  in  a 
similar  state  with  the  fine  statues  of  antiquity:  of 
which  some  have  lost  an  arm,  others  a  leg,  some  a 
little  finger  only;  scarce  any  have  escaped  some 
degree  of  mutilation ;  and  sometimes  a  trunk  is  dug 
up  so  shorn  of  its  limbs  that  the  antiquaries  are 
puzzled  to  make  out  to  what  god  or  hero  it  originally 


294  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

belonged.  To  the  frequent  loss  of  part  of  an  author 
must  be  added  the  difficulty  of  deciphering  what  re- 
mains. 

Ancient  manuscripts  are  by  no  means,  easy  to  read. 
You  are  not  to  imagine,  when  you  see  a  fair  edition  of 
Virgil  or  Horace,  divided  into  verses  and  accurately 
pointed,  that  you  see  it  in  anything  like  its  original  state. 
The  oldest  manuscripts  are  written  wholly  in  capi- 
tals, and  without  any  separation  of  letters  into  words. 
Passing  through  many  hands,  they  have  suffered  from 
the  mistakes  or  carelessness  of  transcribers ;  by  which 
so  great  an  obscurity  is  thrown  on  many  passages  that 
very  often  he  who  makes  the  happiest  guess  is  the  best 
commentator.  But  this  very  obscurity  has  usefully 
exercised  the  powers  of  the  human  mind.  It  became 
a  great  object,  at  the  revival  of  letters,  to  compare  dif- 
ferent readings  ;  to  elucidate  a  text  by  parallel  passages ; 
to  supply  by  probable  conjecture  what  was  necessary 
to  make  an  author  speak  sense ;  and  by  every  possible 
assistance  of  learning  and  sound  criticism,  together 
with  typographical  advantages,  to  restore  the  beauty 
and  splendor  of  the  classic  page.  Verbal  criticism  was 
at  that  time  of  great  and  real  use ;  and  those  who  are 
apt  to  undervalue  it  are  little  aware  how  much  labor 
was  requisite  to  reduce  the  confused  or  mutilated  work 
of  a  thousand  years  back  to  form  and  order. 

This  task  was  well  fitted  for  an  age  recently  emerged 


ON    THE   CLASSICS.  295 

out  of  barbarism.  The  enthusiastic  admiration  with 
which  men  were  struck  on  viewing  the  masterpieces 
of  human  genius,  and  even  the  superstitious  veneration 
with  which  they  regarded  everything  belonging  to  them, 
tended  to  form  their  taste  by  a  quicker  process  than 
if  they  had  been  left  to  make  the  most  of  their  own 
abilities.  By  degrees  the  moderns  felt  their  own  pow- 
ers ;  they  learned  to  imitate,  and  perhaps  to  excel, 
what  before  they  idolized.  But  a  considerable  period 
had  passed  before  any  of  the  modern  languages  were 
thought  worthy  of  being  the  vehicle  of  the  discoveries 
of  science  or  even  of  the  effusions  of  fancy.  Christian- 
ity did  not,  as  might  have  been  expected,  bring  into 
discredit  the  pagan  philosophy.  Aristotle  reigned  in 
the  schools,  where  he  was  regarded  with  a  veneration 
fully  equal  to  what  was  expressed  for  the  sainted 
fathers  of  the  Church ;  and  as  to  the  mythology  of  the 
ancients,  it  is  so  beautiful  that  all  our  earlier  poetry 
has  been  modelled  upon  it.  Even  yet  the  predilection 
for  the  Latin  language  is  apparent  in  our  inscriptions, 
in  the  public  exercises  of  our  schools  and  universities, 
and  the  general  bent  of  the  studies  of  youth.  In  short, 
all  our  knowledge  and  all  our  taste  has  been  built  upon 
the  foundation  of  the  ancients ;  and  without  knowing 
what  they  have  done,  we  cannot  estimate  rightly  the 
merit  of  our  own  authors. 

It   may   naturally   be   asked   why    the   Greek    and 


296  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Roman  writers  alone  are  called  by  the  name  of  the 
3ics.  It  is  true  the  Hebrew  might  be  esteemed  so, 
if  we  did  not  receive  them  upon  a  higher  ground  of 
merit.  As  to  the  Persian  and  Arabic,  with  other 
languages  of  countries  once  highly  cultivated,  their 
authors  are  not  taken  into  the  account,  partly  because 
they  are  understood  by  so  few,  and  partly  because  their 
idioms  and  modes  of  expression,  if  not  of  feeling,  are  so 
remote  from  ours  that  we  can  scarcely  enter  into  their 
merits.  Their  writings  are  comprehended  under  the 
name  of  Oriental  literature.  It  has  been  more  culti- 
vated of  late,  particularly  by  Sir  William  Jones ;  and 
our  East  India  possessions  will  continue  to  draw  our 
attention  that  way;  but  curiosity  is  gratified,  rather 
than  taste.  We  are  pleased,  indeed,  with  occasional 
beauties,  sometimes  a  pure  maxim  of  morality  and 
sometimes  a  glowing  figure  of  speech  ;  but  they  do 
not  enter  into  the  substance  of  the  mind,  which  ever 
must  be  fed  and  nourished  by  the  classic  literature  of 
Greece  and  Rome. 

I  shall  subjoin  a  few  specimens  of  the  mythological 
stories  of  the  ancients. 


ATALANTA. 


Atalanta  was  a  beautiful  young  woman,  exceedingly 
swift  of  foot.     She  had  many  lovers ;  but  she  resolved 


ON   THE  CLASSICS.  297 

not  to  marry  till  she  could  meet  with  one  who  should 
conquer  her  iu  running.  A  great  many  young  men 
proposed  themselves,  and  lost  their  lives ;  for  the 
conditions  were,  that,  if  they  were  overcome  in  the 
race,  they  should  be  put  to  death.  At  length  she  was 
challenged  by  Hippomenes,  a  brave  and  handsome 
youth.  "  Do  you  know,"  said  Atalanta,  "  that  nobody 
has  yet  been  found  who  excels  me  in  swiftness, 
and  that  you  must  be  put  to  death  if  you  do  not 
win  the  race  ?  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  any  more 
young  men  put  to  death."  "I  am  not  afraid,"  said 
Hippomenes ;  "  I  think  I  shall  win  the  race  and  win 
you  too." 

So  the  ground  was  marked  out  and  the  day  ap- 
pointed, and  a  great  number  of  spectators  gathered 
together ;  and  Atalanta  stood  with  her  garments  tucked 
up,  and  Hippomenes  by  her,  waiting  impatiently  for 
the  signal.  At  length  it  was  given ;  and  immediately 
they  both  started  at  the  same  instant,  and  ran  with 
their  utmost  speed  across  the  plain.  But  Atalanta  flew 
like  the  wind,  and  soon  outstripped  the  young  man. 
Then  Hippomenes  drew  from  his  vest  a  golden  apple, 
which  had  been  given  him  by  Venus  from  the  gardens 
of  the  Hesperides,  and  threw  it  from  him  with  all  his 
force.  The  virgin  saw  it  glittering  as  it  rolled  across 
the  plain,  and  ran  out  of  the  course  to  pick  it  up. 
While  she  was  doing  so  Hippomenes  passed  her,  and 

13* 


298  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

the  spectators  shouted  for  joy.  However,  Atalanta 
redoubled  her  speed,  soon  overtook  Hippouienes,  and 
again  got  before  him.  Upon  this  Hippouienes  produced 
another  golden  apple,  and  threw  it  as  before.  It  rolled 
a  great  way  out  of  the  course,  and  the  virgin  was  very 
far  behind  by  picking  it  up.  She  had  great  difficulty 
this  time  to  recover  her  lost  ground,  and  the  spectators 
shouted,  "  Hippouienes  will  win  !  Hippomenes  will 
win  ! "  But  Atalanta  was  so  light,  so  nimble,  and  ex- 
erted herself  so  much,  that  at  length  she  passed  him 
as  before,  and  flew  as  if  she  had  wings  towards  the 
goal.  And  now  she  had  but  a  little  way  to  run  ;  and 
the  people  said,  "  Poor  Hippomenes !  he  will  lose, 
after  all,  and  be  put  to  death  like  the  rest ;  see,  see 
how  she  gains  ground  of  him  !  how  near  the  goal  she 
is  1  Atalanta  will  win  the  race."  Then  Hippomenes 
took  another  golden  apple,  —  it  was  the  last  he  had, — 
and  prayed  to  Yenus  to  give  him  success,  and  threw 
it  behind  him.  Atalanta  saw  it,  and  considered  a 
moment  whether  she  should  venture  to  delay  herself 
again  by  picking  it  up.  She  knew  she  ran  the  risk 
of  losing  the  race,  but  she  could  not  withstand  the 
beautiful  glittering  of  the  apple  as  it  rolled  along ;  and 
she  said  to  herself,  "I  shall  easily  overtake  Hippomenes, 
as  I  did  before."  But  she  was  mistaken ;  for  they  had 
now  so  little  a  way  to  run,  that,  though  she  skimmed 
along  the  plain  like  a  bird,  and  exerted  all  her  strength, 


ON  THE   CLASSICS.  299 

she  was  too  late.  Hippomenes  reached  the  goal  before 
her;  she  was  obliged  to  own  herself  conquered,  and 
to  marry  him  according  to  the  agreement. 


AEION. 

Ariox  was  a  poet  of  Lesbos,  who  sung  his  own  verses 
to  his  harp.  He  had  been  a  good  while  at  the  court 
of  Periander,  tyrant  of  Corinth,  and  had  acquired  great 
riches,  with  which  he  was  desirous  to  return  to  his 
native  country.  He  therefore  made  an  agreement  with 
a  captain  of  a  ship  to  carry  him  to  Mitylene  in  Lesbos, 
and  they  set  sail.  But  the  captain  and  crew,  tempted 
by  the  wealth  which  he  had  on  board,  determined  to 
seize  his  gold  and  throw  him  into  the  sea.  When  poor 
Arion  heard  their  cruel  intention  he  submitted  to  his 
fate,  for  he  knew  he  could  not  resist,  and  only  begged 
they  would  allow  him  to  give  them  one  tune  upon  Iris 
harp  before  he  died.  This  they  complied  with;  and 
Arion,  standing  on  the  deck,  drew  from  his  harp  such 
melodious  strains,  accompanied  with  such  moving 
verses,  that  anybody  but  these  cruel  sailors  would 
have  been  touched  with  them.  When  he  had  finished 
they  threw  him  into  the  sea,  where  they  supposed  he 
was  swallowed  up :  but  that  was  not  the  case,  for  a 
dolphin,  which  had  been  drawn  towards  the  ship  by 


300  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  sweetness  of  Arion's  voice,  swam  to  him,  took  him 
gently  upon  his  back,  conveyed  him  safely  over  the 
waves,  and  landed  him  at  Temera,  whence  he  returned 
to  Periander.  Periander  was  very  much  surprised  to 
see  him  come  again  in  such  a  forlorn  and  destitute 
condition,  and  asked  him  the  reas  n.  Arion  told  his 
story.  Periander  bade  him  conceal  himself  till  the 
sailors  should  return  from  their  voyage,  and  he  would 
do  him  justice.  When  the  ship  returned  from  its 
voyage,  Periander  ordered  the  sailors  to  be  brought 
before  him,  and  asked  them  what  they  had  done  with 
Arion.  They  said  he  had  died  during  the  voyage,  and 
that  they  had  buried  him.  Then  Periander  ordered 
Arion  to  appear  before  them  in  the  clothes  he  wore 
when  they  cast  him  into  the  sea.  At  this  plain  proof 
of  their  guilt  they  were  quite  confounded,  and  Perian- 
der put  them  all  to  death.  It  is  said  further,  that  the 
dolphin  was  taken  up  into  the  heavens  and  turned  into 
a  constellation.  It  is  a  small  constellation,  of  moderate 
brightness,  and  has  four  stars  in  the  form  of  a  rhombus  ; 
you  will  find  it  south  of  the  Swan,  and  a  little  west 
of  the  bright  star  Alcair. 


VENUS  AND  ADOXIS. 

The  goddess  Venus  loved  Adonis,  a  mortal     Beauti- 
ful Venus  loved  the  beautiful  Adonis.     She  often  said 


ON   THE   CLASSICS.  301 

to  him,  "  0  Adonis !  be  content  to  lie  crowned  with 
flowers  by  the  fresh  fountains,  and  to  feed  upon  honey 
and  nectar,  and  to  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  warbling 
of  birds  ;  and  do  not  expose  your  life  by  hunting  the 
tawny  lion,  or  the  tusky  boar,  or  %  any  savage  beast. 
Take  care  of  that  life  which  is  so  dear  to  Venus  I" 
But  Adonis  would  not  listen  to  her.  He  loved  to  rise 
early  in  the  morning,  while  the  dew  was  upon  the  grass, 
and  to  beat  the  thickets  with  his  well-trained  hounds, 
whose  ears  swept  the  ground.  "With  his  darts  he 
pierced  the  nimble  fawns  and  the  kids  with  budding 
horns,  and  brought  home  the  spoil  upon  his  shoulders. 
But  one  day  he  wounded  a  fierce  bristly  boar;  the 
arrow  stuck  in  his  side,  and  made  the  animal  mad 
with  pain  :  he  rushed  upon  Adonis,  and  gored  his  thigh 
with  his  sharp  tusks.  Beautiful  Adonis  fell  to  the 
ground  like  a  lily  that  is  rooted  up  by  a  sudden  storm : 
his  blood  flowed  in  crimson  streams  down  his  fair  side ; 
and  his  eyelids  closed,  and  the  shades  of  death  hovered 
over  his  pale  brow. 

In  the  mean  time  the  evening  came  on,  and  Venus 
had  prepared  a  garland  of  fresh  leaves  and  flowers  to 
bind  around  the  glowing  temples  of  Adonis  when  he 
should  come  hot  and  tired  from  the  chase,  and  a  couch 
of  rose-leaves  to  rest  his  weary  limbs;  and  she  said, 
"  Why  does  not  Adonis  come  ?  Eeturn  Adonis !  let 
me  hear  the  sound  of  your  feet !   let  me  hear  the  voice 


302  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BAEBATJLD. 

of  your  dogs !  let  them  lick  my  hands,  and  make  me 
understand  that  their  master  is  approaching ! "  But 
Adonis  did  not  return ;  and  the  dark  night  came,  and 
the  rosy  morning  appeared  again,  and  still  he  did  not 
appear.  Then  Venus  sought  him  in  the  plains,  and 
through  the  thickets,  and  amidst  the  rough  brakes ; 
and  her  veil  was  torn  with  the  thorns,  and  her  feet 
bruised  and  bleeding  with  the  sharp  pebbles,  for  she 
ran  hither  and  thither  like  a  distracted  person.  And 
at  length  upon  the  mountain  she  found  him  whom  she 
loved  so  dearly ;  but  she  found  him  cold  and  dead, 
with  his  faithful  dogs  beside  him. 

Then  Venus  rent  her  beautiful  tresses,  and  beat  her 
breast,  and  pierced  the  air  with  her  loud  lamentations  ; 
and  the  little  Cupids  that  accompany  her  broke  their 
ivory  bows  for  grief,  and  scattered  upon  the  ground  the 
arrows  of  their  golden  quivers  :  and  they  said,  "  "We 
mourn  Adonis ;  Venus  mourns  for  beautiful  Adonis ; 
the  Loves  mourn  along  with  her.  Beautiful  Adonis. 
lies  dead  upon  the  ground,  his  side  gored  with  the 
tooth  of  a  boar,  —  his  white  thigh  with  a  white  tooth. 
Venus  kisses  the  cold  lips  of  Adonis ;  but  Adonis  does 
not  know  that  he  is  kissed,  and  she  cannot  revive  him 
with  her  warm  breath." 

Then  Venus  said,  "  You  shall  not  quite  die,  my 
Adonis !  I  will  change  you  into  a  flower."  And  she 
shed   nectar   on   the   ground,  which   mixed  with   the 


ON  THE   CLASSICS.  303 

blood,  and  presently  a  crimson  flower  sprang  np  in 
the  room  of  Adonis;  and  also  the  river  was  tinged 
with  his  blood  and  became  red. 

And  every  year,  on  the  day  that  Adonis  died,  the 
nymphs  mourned  and  lamented  for  him,  and  ran  up 
and  down  shrieking,  and  crying  "  Beautiful  Adonis  is 
dead!" 


304  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


SELAMA; 

AN  IMITATION  OF  OSSIAN. 

WHAT  soft  voice  of  sorrow  is  in  the  breeze  ? 
what  lovely  sunbeam  of  beauty  trembling  on 
the  rock  ?  Its  bright  hair  is  bathed  in  showers ;  and 
it  looks,  faint  and  dim,  through  its  mist  on  the  rushy 
plain.  Why  art  thou  alone,  maid  of  the  mournful 
look  ?  The  cold,  dropping  rain  is  on  the  rocks  of 
Torlena,  the  blast  of  the  desert  lifts  thy  yellow  locks. 
Let  thy  steps  be  in  the  hall  of  shells,  by  the  blue 
winding  stream  of  Clutha :  let  the  harp  tremble  beneath 
thy  fingers ;  and  the  sons  of  heroes  listen  to  the  music 
of  songs. 

Shall  my  steps  be  in  the  hall  of  shells,  and  the  aged 
low  in  the  dust  ?  The  father  of  Selama  is  low  behind 
this  rock,  on  his  bed  of  withered  leaves ;  the  thistle's 
down  is  strewed  over  him  by  the  wind,  and  mixes 
with  his  gray  hair.  Thou  art  fallen,  chief  of  Etha ! 
without  thy  fame ;  and  there  is  none  to  revenge  thy 
death.  But  thy  daughter  will  sit,  pale,  beside  thee,  till 
she  sinks,  a  faded  flower,  upon  thy  lifeless  form.  Leave 
the  maid  of  Clutha,  son  of  the  stranger !  in  the  red  eye 
of  her  tears. 


SELAMA.  305 

How  fell  the  car-borne  Connal,  blue-eyed  mourner 
of  the  rock  ?  Mine  arm  is  not  weakened  in  battle ; 
nor  my  sword  without  its  fame. 

Connal  was  a  fire  in  his  youth,  that  lightened 
through  fields  of  renown :  but  the  flame  weakly  glim- 
mered through  gray  ashes  of  age.  His  course  was  like 
a  star  moving  through  the  heavens  :  it  walketh  in 
brightness,  but  leaveth  no  track  behind ;  its  silver  path 
cannot  be  found  in  the  sky.  The  strength  of  Etha  is 
rolled  away  like  a  tale  of  other  years;  and -his  eyes 
have  failed.  Feeble  and  dark,  he  sits  in  his  hail,  and 
hears  the  distant  tread  of  a  stranger's  steps ;  the 
haughty  steps  of  Tonthormo,  from  the  roar  of  Duvran- 
no's  echoing  stream.  He  stood  in  the  hall  like  a  pillar 
of  darkness,  on  whose  top  is  the  red  beam  of  fire  :  wide 
rolled  his  eyes  beneath  the  gloomy  arch  of  his  bent 
brow ;  as  flames  in  two  caves  of  a  rock,  overhung  with 
the  black  pine  of  the  desert.  They  had  rolled  on 
Selama,  and  he  asked  the  daughter  of  Connal.  Ton- 
thormo !  breaker  of  shields  !  thou  art  a  meteor  of  death 
in  war,  whose  fiery  hair  streams  on  the  clouds,  and  the 
nations  are  -withered  beneath  its  path.  Dwell,  Ton- 
thormo !  amidst  thy  hundred  hills,  and  listen  to  thy 
torrent's  roar ;  but  the  soft  sigh  of  the  virgins  is  with 
the  chief  of  Crono ;  Hidallan  is  the  dream  of  Selama, 
the  dweller  of  her  secret  thoughts.  A  rushing  storm 
in  war,  a  breeze  that  sighs  over  the  fallen  foe,  pleasant 

T 


306  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

are  thy  words  of  peace,  and  thy  songs  at  the  mossy 
brook.  Thy  smiles  are  like  the  moonbeams  trembling 
on  the  waves.  Thy  voice  is  the  gale  of  summer  that 
whispers  among  the  reeds  of  the  lake,  and  awakens  the 
harp  of  Moilena  with  all  its  lightly  trembling  strings. 
0  that  thy  calm  light  was  around  me  !  my  soul  should 
not  fear  the  gloomy  chief  of  Duvranno.  He  came  with 
his  stately  steps.  —  My  shield  is  before  thee,  maid  of 
my  love  '.  a  wall  of  shelter  from  the  lightning  of 
swords.  They  fought.  Tonthormo  bends,  in  all  his 
pride,  before  the  arm  of  youth.  But  a  voice  was  in 
the  breast  of  Hidallan,  shall  I  slay  the  lover  of  Selama  ? 
Selama  dwells  in  thy  dark  bosom,  shall  my  steel  enter 
there  ?  Live,  thou  storm  of  war !  He  gave  again  his 
sword.  But,  careless  as  he  strode  away,  rage  arose  in 
the  troubled  thoughts  of  the  vanquished.  He  marked 
his  time,  and  sidelong  pierced  the  heart  of  the  gener- 
ous son  of  Semo.  His  fair  hair  is  spread  on  tlie  dust, 
his  eyes  are  bent  on  the  trembling  beam  of  Clutha. 
Farewell,  light  of  my  soul !  They  are  closed  in  dark- 
ness. Feeble  wast  thou  then,  my  father !  and  in  vain 
didst  thou  call  for  help.  Thy  gray  locks  are  scattered, 
as  a  wreath  of  snow  on  the  top  of  a  withered  trunk; 
which  the  boy  brushes  away  with  his  staff;  and  care- 
less singeth  as  lie  walks.  "Who  shall  defend  thee,  my 
daughter  !  said  the  broken  voice  of  Etna's  chief.  Fair 
flower  of  the  desert !   the  tempest  shall  rush  over  thee  ; 


SELAMA.  307 

and  thou  shalt  be  low  beneath  the  foot  of  the  savage 
son  of  prey.  But  I  will  wither,  my  father !  on  thy 
tomb.  Weak  and  alone  I  dwell  amidst  my  tears,  there 
is  no  young  warrior  to  lift  the  spear,  no  brother  of 
love !  0  that  mine  arm  were  strong !  I  would  rush 
amidst  the  battle.     Selama  has  no  friend! 

But  Selama  has  a  friend,  said  the  kindling  soul  of 
Eeuthamir.  I  will  fight  thy  battles,  lovely  daughter 
of  kings ;  and  the  sun  of  Duvranno  shall  set  in  blood. 
But  when  I  return  in  peace,  and  the  spirits  of  thy  foes 
are  on  my  sword,  meet  me  with  thy  smiles  of  love, 
maid  of  Clutha !  with  thy  slow-rolling  eyes.  Let  the 
soft  sound  of  thy  steps  be  heard  in  my  halls,  that  the 
mother  of  Eeuthamir  may  rejoice.  Whence,  she  will 
say,  is  this  beam  of  the  distant  land?  Thou  shalt 
dwell  in  her  bosom. 

My  thoughts  are  with  him  who  is  low  in  the  dust, 
son  of  Corrnac !  But  lift  the  spear,  thou  friend  of  the 
unhappy !   the  light  of  my  soul  may  return. 

He  strode  in  his  rattling  arms.  Tall,  in  a  gloomy 
forest,  stood  the  surly  strength  of  Duvranno.  Gleam- 
ing behind  the  dark  trees  was  his  broad  shield;  like 
the  moon  when  it  rises  in  blood,  and  the  dusky  clouds 
sail  low  and  heavy  athwart  its  path.  Thoughts,  like 
the  troubled  ocean,  rushed  over  his  soul,  and  he  struck, 
with  his  spear,  the  sounding  pine.  Starting,  he  mixed 
in  battle  with  the  chief  of  woody  Morna.     Long  was 


308  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  strife  of  arms ;  and  the  giant  sons  of  the  forest 
trembled  at  their  strokes.  At  length  Tonthormo  fell  — 
the  sword  of  Reuthamir  waved,  a  blue  flame,  around 
him.  He  bites  the  ground  in  rage.  His  blood  is 
poured,  a  dark  red  stream,  into  Oithona's  trembling 
waves.  Joy  brightened  in  the  soul  of  Peuthamir; 
when  a  young  warrior  came,  with  his  forward  spear. 
He  moved  in  the  light  of  beauty ;  but  his  words  were 
haughty  and  fierce.  Is  Tonthormo  fallen  in  blood,  the 
friend  of  my  early  years  ?  Die,  thou  dark-souled  chief ! 
for  never  shall  Selama  be  thine,  the  maid  of  his  love. 
Lovely  shone  her  eyes,  througli  tears,  in  the  hall  of  her 
grief,  when  I  stood  by  the  chief  of  Duvranno,  in  the 
rising  strife  of  Clutha. 

Retire,  thou  swelling  voice  of  pride  !  thy  spear  is 
light  as  the  taper  reed.  Pierce  the  roes  of  the  desert, 
and  call  the  hunter  to  the  feast  of  songs,  but  speak  not 
of  the  daughter  of  Connal,  son  of  the  feeble  arm! 
Selama  is  the  love  of  heroes. 

Try  thy  strength  with  the  feeble  arm,  said  the  rising 
pride  of  youth.  Thou  shalt  vanish  like  a  cloud  of  mist 
before  the  sun,  when  he  looks  abroad  in  the  power  of 
his  brightness,  and  the  storms  are  rolled  away  from  be- 
fore his  face. 

But  thou  thyself  didst  fall  before  Peuthamir,  in  all 
thy  boasting  words.  As  a  tall  ash  of  the  mountain, 
when  the  tempest  takes  its  green  head  and  lays  it  level 
on  the  plain. 


SELAMA.  309 

Come  from  thy  secret  cave,  Selama !  thy  foes  are 
silent  and  dark.  Thou  dove  that  hidest  in  the  clefts 
of  the  rocks  !  the  storm  is  over  and  past.  Come  from 
thy  rock,  Selama !  and  give  thy  white  hand  to  the 
chief  who  never  fled  from  the  face  of  glory,  in  all  its 
terrible  brightness. 

She  gave  her  hand,  but  it  was  trembling  and  cold, 
for  the  spear  was  deep  in  her  side.  Eed,  beneath  her 
mail,  the  current  of  crimson  wandered  down  her  white 
breast,  as  the  track  of  blood  on  Cromla's  mountains  of 
snow,  when  the  wounded  deer  slowly  crosses  the  heath, 
and  the  hunter's  cries  are  in  the  breeze.  Blest  be  the 
spear  of  Eeuthamir  !  said  the  faint  voice  of  the  lovely, 
I  feel  it  cold  in  my  heart.  Lay  me  by  the  son  of 
Semo.  Why  should  I  know  another  love  ?  Eaise  the 
tomb  of  the  aged,  his  thin  form  shall  rejoice,  as  he  sails 
on  a  low-hung  cloud,  and  guides  the  wintry  storm. 
Open  your  airy  halls,  spirits  of  my  love. 

And  have  I  quenched  the  light  which  was  pleasant 
to  my  soul  ?  said  the  chief  of  Morna.  My  steps  moved 
in  darkness,  why  were  the  words  of  strife  in  thy  tale  ? 
Sorrow,  like  a  cloud,  comes  over  my  soul,  and  shades 
the  joy  of  mighty  deeds.  Soft  be  your  rest  in  the  nar- 
row house,  children  of  grief !  The  breeze  in  the  Ions: 
whistling  grass  shall  not  awaken  you.  The  tempest 
shall  rush  over  you,  and  the  bulrush  bow  its  head  upon 
your  tomb,  but  silence  shall  dwell  in  your  habitation ; 


310  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

long  repose,  and  the  peace  of  years  to  come.  The  voice 
of  the  bard  shall  raise  your  remembrance  in  the  distant 
land,  and  mingle  your  tale  of  woe  with  the  murmur  of 
other  streams.  Often  shall  the  harp  send  forth  a 
mournful  sound,  and  the  tear  dwell  in  the  soft  eyes 
of  the  daughters  of  Morna. 

Such  were  the  words  of  Eeuthamir,  while  he  raised 
the  tombs  of  the  fallen.  Sad  were  his  steps  towards 
the  towers  of  his  fathers,  as,  musing,  he  crossed  the 
dark  heath  of  Lena,  and  struck,  at  times,  the  thistle's 
beard. 


LETTER   ON    WATERING-PLACES. 


311 


LETTEE   ON  WATERIXG-PLACES. 


SIK,  —  I  am  a  country  gentleman,  and  enjoy  an  es- 
tate in  Northamptonshire,  which  formerly  enabled 
its  possessors  to  assume  some  degree  of  consequence  in 
the  country ;  but  which  for  several  generations  has 
been  growing  less,  only  because  it  has  not  grown  big- 
ger. I  mean,  that  though  I  have  not  yet  been  obliged 
to  mortgage  my  land  or  fell  my  timber,  its  relative 
value  is  every  day  diminishing  by  the  prodigious  influx 
of  wealth,  real  and  artificial,  which  for  some  time  past 
has  been  pouring  into  this  kingdom.  Hitherto,  how- 
ever, I  have  found  my  income  equal  to  my  wants.  It 
has  enabled  me  to  inhabit  a  good  house  in  town  for 
four  months  of  the  year,  and  to  reside  amongst  my  ten- 
ants and  neighbors  for  the  remaining  eight  with  credit 
and  hospitality.  I  am  indeed  myself  so  fond  of  the 
country,  and  so  averse  in  my  nature  to  everything  of 
huny  and  bustle,  that  if  I  consulted  only  my  own  taste 
I  should  never  feel  a  wish  to  leave  the  shelter  of  my 
own  oaks  in  the  dreariest  season  of  the  year ;  but  I 
looked  upon  our  annual  visit  to  London  as  a  proper 
compliance  with  the  gayer  disposition  of  my  wife  and 
the  natural  curiosity  of  the  younger  part  of  the  family ; 


312 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


besides,  to  say  the  truth,  it  had  its  advantages  in  avoid- 
ing a  round  of  dinners  and  card-parties,  which  we  must 
otherwise  have  engaged  in  for  the  winter  season,  or 
have  been  branded  with  the  appellation  of  unsociable. 
Our  journey  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  furnishing  my 
study  with  some  new  books  and  prints,  and  my  wife  of 
gratifying  her  neighbors  with  some  ornamental  trifles 
before  their  value  was  sunk  by  becoming  common,  or 
of  producing  at  her  table  or  in  her  furniture  some  now- 
invented  refinement  of  fashionable  elegance.  Our  hall 
was  the  first  that  was  lighted  by  an  Argand  lamp ;  and 
I  still  remember  how  we  were  gratified  by  the  astonish- 
ment of  our  guests  when  my  wife  with  an  audible 
voice  called  to  the  footman  for  the  tongs  to  help  to  the 
asparagus  with.  We  found  it  pleasant,  too,  to  be  ena- 
bled to  talk  of  capital  artists  and  favorite  actors ;  and 
I  made  the  better  figure  in  my  political  debates  from 
having  heard  the  most  popular  speakers  in  the  House. 

Once,  too,  to  recruit  my  wife's  spirits  after  a  tedious 
confinement  from  a  lying-in,  we  passed  a  season  at 
Bath.  In  this  manner,  therefore,  things  went  on  very 
well  in  the  main,  till  of  late  my  family  have  discovered 
that  we  lead  a  very  dull  kind  of  life  ;  and  that  it  is 
impossible  to  exist  with  comfort,  or  indeed  to  enjoy  a 
tolerable  share  of  health,  without  spending  a  good  part 
of  every  summer  at  a  watering-place.  I  held  out  as 
long  as  I  could.     One  may  be  allowed   to  resist   the 


LETTER   ON   WATERING-PLACES.  313 

plans  of  dissipation,  but  the  plea  of  health  cannot  de- 
cently be  withstood. 

It  was  soon  discovered  that  my  eldest  daughter 
wanted  bracing  ;  and  my  wife  had  a  bilious  complaint, 
against  which  our  family  physician  declared  that  sea- 
bathing would  be  particularly  serviceable.  Therefore, 
though  it  was  my  own  private  opinion  that  my  daugh- 
ter's nerves  might  have  been  as  well  braced  by  morn- 
ing rides  upon  the  Northamptonshire  hills  as  by  even- 
ing dances  in  the  public  rooms,  and  that  my  wife's  bile 
would  have  been  greatly  lessened  by  compliance  with 
her  husband,  I  acquiesced ;  and  preparations  were 
made  for  our  journey.  These  indeed  were  but  slight, 
for  the  chief  gratification  proposed  in  this  scheme  was 
an  entire  freedom  from  care  and  form.  "We  should 
find  everything  requisite  in  our  lodgings  ;  it  was  of  no 
consequence  whether  the  rooms  we  should  occupy  for  a 
few  months  in  the  summer  were  elegant  or  not;  the 
simplicity  of  a  country  life  would  be  the  more  enjoyed 
by  the  little  shifts  we  should  be  put  to ;  and  all  neces- 
saries would  be  provided  in  our  lodgings.  It  was  not, 
therefore,  till  after  we  had  taken  them  that  we  dis- 
covered how  far  ready-furnished  lodgings  were  from 
affording  every  article  in  the  catalogue  of  necessaries. 
We  did  not  indeed  give  them  a  very  scrupulous  ex- 
amination ;  for  the  place  was  so  full,  that  when  we 
arrived,  —  late  at  night,  and  tired  with  our  journey,  — 

VOL.    II.  14 


314  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

all  the  beds  in  the  inn  were  taken  up,  and  an  easy- 
chair  and  a  carpet  were  all  the  accommodations  we 
could  obtain  for  our  repose.  The  next  morning,  there- 
fore, we  eagerly  engaged  the  first  lodgings  we  found 
vacant,  and  have  ever  since  been  disputing  about  the 
terms,  which  from  the  hurry  were  not  sufficiently 
ascertained ;  and  it  is  not  even  yet  settled  whether  the 
little  blue  garret,  which  serves  us  as  a  powdering  room, 
is  ours  of  right  or  by  favor.  The  want  of  all  sorts  of 
conveniences  is  a  constant  excuse  for  the  want  of  all 
order  and  neatness,  which  is  so  visible  in  our  apart- 
ment ;  and  we  are  continually  lamenting  that  we  are 
obliged  to  buy  things  of  winch  we  have  such  plenty  at 
home. 

It  is  my  misfortune  that  I  can  do  nothing  without 
all  my  little  conveniences  about  me,  and  in  order  to 
write  a  common  letter  I  must  have  my  study-table  to 
lean  my  elbows  on  in  sedentary  luxury ;  you  will  judge, 
therefore,  how  little  I  am  able  to  employ  my  leisure, 
when  I  tell  you  that  the  only  room  they  have  been 
able  to  allot  for  my  use  is  so  filled  with  my  daughters' 
hat-boxes,  bandboxes,  wig-boxes,  etc.,  that  I  can  scarce- 
ly move  about  in  it,  and  am  at  this  moment  writing 
upon  a  spare  trunk  for  want  of  a  table.  I  am  there- 
fore driven  to  saunter  about  with  the  rest  of  the  party  ; 
but  instead  of  the  fine  clumps  of  trees  and  waving 
fields  of  corn  I  have  been  accustomed  to  have  before 


LETTER   ON   WATERING-PLACES.  315 

my  eyes,  I  see  nothing  but  a  naked  beach  almost  with- 
out a  tree,  exposed  by  turns  to  the  cutting  eastern 
blast  and  the  glare  of  a  July  sun,  and  covered  with  a 
sand  equally  painful  to  the  eyes  and  to  the  feet.  The 
ocean  is  indeed  an  object  of  unspeakable  grandeur ;  but 
when  it  has  been  contemplated  in  a  storm  and  in  a 
calm,  when  we  have  seen  the  sun  rise  out  of  its  bosom 
and  the  moon  silver  its  extended  surface,  its  variety  is 
exhausted,  and  the  eye  begins  to  require  the  softer  and 
more  interesting  scenes  of  cultivated  nature.  My  fam- 
ily have  indeed  been  persuaded  several  times  to  enjoy 
the  sea  still  more  by  engaging  in  a  little  sailing-party  ; 
but  as,  unfortunately,  Northamptonshire  has  not  afforded 
them  any  opportunity  of  becoming  seasoned  sailors, 
these  parties  of  pleasure  are  always  attended  with  the 
most  dreadful  sickness.  This,  likewise,  I  am  told,  is 
very  good  for  the  constitution ;  it  may  be  so  for  aught 
I  know  ;  but  I  confess  I  am  apt  to  imagine  that  taking 
an  emetic  at  home  would  be  equally  salutary,  and  T  am 
sure  it  would  be  more  decent.  Nor  can  I  help  imagin- 
ing that  my  youngest  daughter's  lover  has  been  less 
assiduous  since  he  has  contemplated  her  in  the  indeli- 
cate situation  of  a  ship-cabin.  I  have  endeavored  to 
amuse  myself  with  the  company,  but  without  much 
success.  It  consists  of  a  very  few  great  people,  who 
make  a  set  by  themselves,  and  think  they  are  entitled 
by  the  freedom  of  a  watering-place  to  indulge  them- 


316  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

selves  in  all  manner  oi polissonneries  ;  and  the  rest  is  a 
motley  group  of  sharpers,  merchants'  clerks,  kept  mis- 
tresses, idle  men,  and  nervous  women.  I  have  been 
accustomed  to  be  nice  in  my  choice  of  acquaintance, 
especially  for  my  family  ;  but  the  greater  part  of  our 
connections  here  are  such  as  we  should  be  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  anywhere  else ;  and  the  few  we  have  seen 
above  ourselves  will  equally  disclaim  us  when  we  meet 
in  town  next  winter.  As  to  the  settled  inhabitants  of 
the  place,  all  who  do  not  get  by  us  view  us  with  dis- 
like, because  we  raise  the  price  of  provisions ;  and 
those  who  do  —  which  in  one  way  or  other  compre- 
hends all  the  lower  class  —  have  lost  every  trace  of 
rural  simplicity,  and  are  versed  in  all  arts  of  luw 
cunning  and  chicane.  The  spirit  of  greediness  and  ra- 
pacity is  nowhere  so  conspicuous  as  in  lodging-houses. 
At  our  seat  in  the  country  our  domestic  concerns  went 
on  as  by  clock-work ;  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  week 
settled  the  bills,  and  few  tradesmen  wished,  and  none 
dared,  to  practise  any  imposition  where  all  were 
known,  and  the  consequence  of  their  different  behavior 
must  have  been  their  being  marked  for  life  for  encour- 
agement or  for  distrust.  But  here  the  continual  fluc- 
tuation of  company  takes  away  all  regard  to  character  ; 
the  most  respectable  and  ancient  families  have  no 
influence  any  further  than  as  they  scatter  their  ready 
cash,  and  neither  gratitude  nor  respect  are  felt  where 


LETTER   OX   WATERING -PLACES.  317 

there  is  no  bond  of  mutual  attachment  besides  the 
necessities  of  the  present  day.  I  should  be  happy  if 
we  had  only  to  contend  with  this  spirit  during  our 
present  excursion ;  but  the  effect  it  has  upon  servants 
is  most  pernicious.  Our  family  used  to  be  remarkable 
for  having  its  domestics  grow  gray  in  its  service,  but 
this  expedition  has  already  corrupted  them;  two  we 
have  this  evening  parted  with,  and  the  rest  have 
learned  so  much  of  the  tricks  of  their  station  that  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  discharge  them  as  soon  as  we  return 
home.  In  the  country  I  had  been  accustomed  to  do 
good  to  the  poor ;  there  are  charities  here  too :  we 
have  joined  in  a  subscription  for  a  crazy  poetess,  a  raf- 
fle for  the  support  of  a  sharper  who  passes  under  the 
title  of  a  German  count,  and  a  benefit-play  for  a  gentle- 
man on  board  the  hulks.  Unfortunately,  to  balance 
these  various  expenses,  this  place,  which  happens  to  be 
a  great  resort  of  smugglers,  affords  daily  opportunities 
of  making  bargains.  We  drink  spoiled  teas  under  the 
idea  of  their  being  cheap  ;  and  the  little  room  we  have 
is  made  less  by  the  reception  of  cargoes  of  India  taffe- 
ties,  shawl-muslins,  and  real  chintzes.  All  my  author- 
ity here  would  be  exerted  in  vain ;  for  (I  do  not  know 
whether  you  know  it  or  no)  the  buying  of  a  bargain  is 
a  temptation  which  is  not  in  the  nature  of  any  woman 
to  resist.  I  am  in  hopes,  however,  the  business  may 
receive  some  little  check  from  an  incident  which  hap- 


318  WORKS   OF   MRS,    BARBAULD. 

pened  a  little  time  since  :  an  acquaintance  of  ours, 
returning  from  Margate,  had  his  carriage  seized  by  the 
custom-house  officers,  on  account  of  a  piece  of  silk 
which  one  of  his  female  cousins,  without  his  knowl- 
edge, had  stowed  in  it ;  and  it  was  only  released  by  its 
being  proved  that  what  she  had  bought  with  so  much 
satisfaction  as  contraband  was  in  reality  the  home-bred 
manufacture  of  Spitalfields. 

My  family  used  to  be  remarkable  for  regularity  in 
their  attendance  on  public  worship ;  but  that,  too,  here 
is  numbered  amongst  the  amusements  of  the  place. 
Lady  Huntingdon  has  a  chapel,  which  sometimes  at- 
tracts us ;  and  when  nothing  promises  us  any  particular 
entertainment,  a  tea-drinking  at  the  Rooms,  or  a  con- 
cert of  what  is  called  sacred  music,  is  sufficient  to  draw 
us  from  a  church  where  no  one  will  remark  either  our 
absence  or  our  presence.  Thus  we  daily  become  more 
lax  in  our  conduct,  for  want  of  the  salutary  restraint 
imposed  upon  us  by  the  consciousness  of  being  looked 
up  to  as  an  example  by  others. 

In  this  manner,  sir,  lias  the  season  passed  away.  I 
spend  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  make  no  figure ;  I  am 
in  the  country,  and  see  nothing  of  country  simplicity 
or  country  occupations  ;  I  am  in  an  obscure  village, 
and  yet  cannot  stir  out  without  more  observers  than 
if  I  were  walking  in  St.  James's  Park ;  I  am  cooped  up 
in  less  room  than  my  own  dog-kennel,  while  my  spa- 


LETTER  ON    WATERING-PLACES.  319 

cious  halls  are  injured  by  standing  empty ;  and  I  am 
paying  for  tasteless -unripe  fruit,  while  my  own  choice 
wall-fruit  is  rotting  by  bushels  under  the  trees.  In 
recompense  for  all  this  we  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  we  occupy  the  very  rooms  which  my 

Lord had  just  quitted ;  of  picking  up  anecdotes, 

true  or  false,  of  people  in  high  life  ;  and  of  seizing  the 
ridicule  of  every  character  as  they  pass  by  us  in  the 
moving  show-glass  of  the  place,  —  a  pastime  which 
often  affords  us  a  good  deal  of  mirth,  but  which,  I 
confess,  I  can  never  join  in  without  reflecting  that 
what  is  our  amusement  is  theirs  likewise.  As  to  the 
great  ostensible  object  of  our  excursion,  health,  I 
am  afraid  we  cannot  boast  of  much  improvement.  We 
have  had  a  wet  and  cold  summer;  and  these  houses, 
which  are  either  old  tenements  vamped  up,  or  new 
ones  slightly  run  up  for  the  accommodation  of  bathers 
during  the  season,  have  more  contrivances  for  letting 
in  the  cooling  breezes  than  for  keeping  them  out,  a 
circumstance  which  I  should  presume  sagacious  physi- 
cians do  not  always  attend  to  when  they  order  patients 
from  their  own  warm,  compact,  substantial  houses  to 
take  the  air  in  country  lodgings ;  of  which  the  best 
apartments,  during  the  winter,  have  only  been  inhab- 
ited by  the  rats,  and  where  the  poverty  of  the  landlord 
prevents  him  from  laying  out  more  in  repairs  than  will 
serve  to  give  them  a  showy  and  attractive  appearance. 


320 


WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


Be  that  as  it  may ;  the  rooms  we  at  present  inhabit  are 
so  pervious  to  the  breeze,  that  in-  spite  of  all  the  in- 
genious expedients  of  listing  the  doors,  pasting  paper 
on  the  inside  of  cupboards,  laying  sand-bags,  puttying 
crevices,  and  condemning  closet  doors,  it  has  given 
me  a  severe  touch  of  my  old  rheumatism,  and  all  my 
family  are  in  one  way  or  other  affected  with  it:  my 
eldest  daughter,  too,  has  got  cold  with  her  bathing, 
though  the  sea-water  never  gives  anybody  cold  1 

In  answer  to  these  complaints,  I  am  told  by  the 
good  company  here  that  I  have  stayed  too  long  in  the 
same  air,  and  that  now  I  ought  to  take  a  trip  to  the 
Continent,  and  spend  the  winter  at  Nice,  which  would 
complete  the  business.  I  am  entirely  of  their  opinion, 
that  it  would  complete  the  business,  and  have  therefore 
taken  the  liberty  of  laying  my  case  before  you;  and 

am,  sir, 

Yours,  etc., 

Henry  Homelove. 


DIALOGUE.  321 


DIALOGUE 

BETWEEN     MADAME     COSMOGUN1A     AND    A     PHILOSOPHICAL     EN- 
QUIRER   OF    THE    EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY,  JANUARY  1,   1793. 

E.  I  rejoice,  my  good  madam,  to  see  yon.  You  bear 
your  years  extremely  well.  You  really  look  as  fresh 
and  blooming  this  morning  as  if  you  were  but  just  out 
of  your  leading-strings ;  and  yet  you  have  —  I  forget 
how  many  centuries  upon  your  shoulders. 

C.  Do  not  you  know,  son,  that  people  of  my  stand- 
ing are  by  no  means  fond  of  being  too  nicely  questioned 
about  their  years  ?  Besides,  my  age  is  a  point  by  no 
means  agreed  upon. 

E.  I  thought  it  was  set  down  in  the  church  regis- 
ter? 

C.  That  is  true  ;  but  everybody  does  not  go  by  your 
register.  The  people  who  live  eastward  of  us,  and  have 
sold  tea  time  out  of  mind,  by  the  Great  Wall,  say  I  am 
older  by  a  vast  deal;  and  that  long  before  the  time 
when  your  people  pretend  I  was  born,  I  had  near  as 
much  wisdom  and  learning  as  I  have  now. 

E.  I  do  not  know  how  that  matter  might  be ;  one 
thing  I  am  certain  of,  that  you  did  not  know  your 
u*  u 


322  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

letters  then  ;  and  everybody  knows  that  these  tea-dealers, 
who  are  very  vain,  and  want  to  go  higher  than  any- 
body else  for  the  antiquity  of  their  family,  are  noted 
for  lying. 

C.  On  the  other  hand,  old  Isaac,  the  great  chronicler, 
who  was  so  famous  for  casting  a  figure,  used  to  say 
that  the  register  itself  had  been  altered,  and  that  he 
could  prove  I  was  much  younger  than  you  have  usually 
reckoned  me  to  be.  It  may  be  so ;  —  for  my  part,  I 
cannot  be  supposed  to  remember  so  far  back.  I  could 
not  write  in  my  early  youth,  and  it  was  a  long  time 
before  I  had  a  pocket-almanac  to  set  down  all  occur- 
rences in,  and  the  ages  of  my  children,  as  I  do  now. 

E.  \Yell ;  your  exact  age  is  not  so  material ;  —  but 
there  is  one  point  which  I  confess  I  wish  much  to 
ascertain.  I  have  often  heard  it  asserted  that  as  you 
increase  in  years  you  grow  wiser  and  better,  and  that 
you  are  at  this  moment  more  candid,  more  liberal,  a 
better  manager  of  your  affairs,  and,  in  short,  more 
amiable  in  every  respect,  than  ever  you  were  in  the 
whole  course  of  your  life;  and  others — you  will  ex- 
cuse me,  madam  —  pretend  that  you  are  almost  in 
your  dotage ;  that  you  grow  more  intolerable  every 
year  you  live ;  and  that  whereas  in  your  childhood 
you  were  a  sprightly,  innocent  young  creature,  that 
rose  with  the  lark,  lay  down  with  the  lamb,  and 
thought  or  said  no  harm  of  any  one,  you  are  become 


DIALOGUE.  323 

suspicious,  selfish,  interested,  fond  of  nothing  but  in- 
dulging your  appetites,  and  continually  setting  your 
own  children  together  by  the  ears  for  straws.  Now  I 
should  like  to  know  where  the  truth  lies  ? 

C.  As  to  that,  I  am,  perhaps,  too  nearly  concerned 
to  answer  you  properly.  I  will  therefore  only  observe 
that  I  do  not  remember  the  time  when  I  have  not 
heard  exactly  the  same  contradictory  assertions. 

E.  I  believe  the  best  way  to  determine  the  question 
will  be  by  facts.  Pray  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  how 
you  have  employed  yourself  in  the  different  periods 
of  your  life ;  from  the  earliest  time  you  can  remember, 
for  instance. 

C.  I  have  a  very  confused  remembrance  of  living  in 
a  pleasant  garden  full  of  fruit,  and  of  being  turned  out 
because  I  had  not  minded  the  injunctions  that  were 
laid  upon  me.  After  that  I  became  so  very  naughty 
that  I  got  a  severe  ducking,  and  was  in  great  danger 
of  being  drowned. 

E.  A  hopeful  beginning,  I  must  allow  !  Pray  what 
was  the  first  piece  of  work  you  recollect  being  engaged 
in? 

C.  I  remember  setting  myself  to  build  a  prodigious 
high  house  of  cards,  which  I  childishly  thought  I  could 
raise  up  to  the  very  skies.  I  piled  them  up  very  high, 
and  at  last  left  off  in  the  middle,  and  had  my  tongue 
slit  for  being  so  self-conceited.      Afterwards  I  baked 


324  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

dirt  in  the  sun,  and  resolved  to  make  something  very 
magnificent,  I  hardly  knew  what ;  so  I  built  a  great 
many  mounds  in  the  form  of  sugar- loaves,  very  broad 
at  bottom  and  pointed  at  top :  they  took  me  a  great 
many  years  to  make,  and  were  lit  for  no  earthly  purpose 
when  they  were  done.  They  are  still  to  be  seen,  if  you 
choose  to  take  the  trouble  of  going  so  far.  Travellers 
call  them  my  folly. 

E.  Pray  what  studies  took  your  attention  when  you 
first  began  to  learn  ? 

C.  At  first  I  amused  myself,  as  all  children  do,  with 
pictures,  and  drew,  or  rather  attempted  to  draw,  figures 
of  lions  and  serpents,  and  men  with  the  heads  of  ani- 
mals, and  women  with  fishes'  tails ;  to  all  which  I 
affixed  a  meaning,  often  whimsical  enough.  Many  of 
these  my  first  scratches  are  still  to  be  seen  upon  old 
walls  and  stones,  and  have  greatly  exercised  the  in- 
genuity of  the  curious  to  find  out  what  I  could  possibly 
mean  by  them.  Afterwards,  when  I  had  learned  to  read, 
I  was  wonderfully  entertained  with  stories  of  giants, 
griffins,  and  mermaids;  and  men  and  women  turned 
into  trees,  and  horses  that  spoke,  and  of  an  old  man 
that  used  to  eat  up  his  children,  till  his  wife  deceived 
him  by  giving  him  a  stone  to  eat  instead  of  one  of 
them ;  and  of  a  conjurer  that  tied  up  the  wind  in  bags, 
and  — 

E.    Hold,  hold,  my  good  madam  !  you  have  given  me 


DIALOGUE.  325 

a  very  sufficient  proof  of  that  propensity  to  the  mar- 
vellous which  I  have  always  remarked  in  you.  I  sup- 
pose, however,  you  soon  grew  too  old  for  such  nursery 
stories  as  these. 

C.  On  the  contrary,  I  amused  myself  with  putting 
them  into  verse,  and  had  them  sung  to  me  on  holidays ; 
and,  at  this  very  day,  I  make  a  point  of  teaching  them 
to  all  my  children  in  whose  education  I  take  any 
pains. 

E.  I  think  I  sliould  rather  whip  them  for  employing 
their  time  so  idly ;  I  hope  at  least  these  pretty  stories 
kept  you  out  of  mischief? 

C.  I  cannot  say  they  did;  I  never  was  without  a 
scratched  face,  or  a  bloody  nose,  at  any  period  I  can 
remember. 

U.    Very  promising  dispositions,  truly  ! 

C.  My  amusements  were  not  all  so  mischievous.  I 
was  very  fond  of  star-gazing,  and  telling  fortunes,  and 
trying  a  thousand  tricks  for  good  luck,  many  of  which 
have  made  such  an  impression  on  my  mind,  that  I 
remember  them  even  to  this  day. 

E.  I  hope,  however,  your  reading  was  not  all  of  the 
kind  you  have  mentioned  ? 

C.  No.  It  was  at  some  very  famous  races,  which 
were  held  every  four  years  for  my  diversion,  and  which 
I  always  made  a  point  to  be  at,  that  a  man  once  came 
upon  the  race-ground,  and  read  a  history-book  aloud  to 


326  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

the  whole  company  :  there  were,  to  be  sure,  a  number 
of  stories  in  it  not  greatly  better  than  those  I  have 
been  telling  you ;  however,  from  that  time  I  began  to 
take  to  more  serious  learning,  and  likewise  to  reckon 
and  date  all  my  accounts  by  these  races,  which,  as  I 
told  you,  I  was  very  fond  of. 

E.  I  think  you  afterwards  went  to  school,  and  learnt 
philosophy  and  mathematics  ? 

C.    I  did  so.     I  had  a  great  many  famous  masters. 

U.    Were  you  a  teachable  scholar  ? 

C.  One  of  my  masters  used  always  to  weep  when  he 
saw  me ;  another  used  always  to  burst  into  a  fit  of 
laughter.  I  leave  you  to  guess  what  they  thought 
of  me. 

E.  Pray  what  did  you  do  when  you  were  in  middle 
age  ?  —  that  is  usually  esteemed  the  most  valuable  part 
of  life. 

C.  I  somehow  got  shut  up  in  a  dark  cell,  where  I 
took  a  long  nap. 

E.   And  after  you  waked  — 

C.    I  fell  a  disputing  with  all  my  might. 

E.  What  were  the  subjects  that  interested  you  so 
much  ? 

C.   Several 

E.   Pray  let  us  have  a  specimen  ? 

C.  Whether  the  light  of  Tabor  was  created  or  uncre- 
ated ;   whether  one  be  a  number ;   whether  men  should 


DIALOGUE.  327 

cross  themselves  with  two  fingers  or  with  three; 
whether  the  creation  was  finished  in  six  days  because 
it  is  the  most  perfect  number,  or  whether  six  is  the 
most  perfect  number  because  the  creation  was  fin- 
ished in  six  days ;  whether  two  and  one  make  three,  or 
only  one. 

E.  And  pray  what  may  be  your  opinion  of  the  last 
proposition,  particularly  ? 

C.  I  have  by  no  means  made  up  my  mind  about  it ; 
in  another  century,  perhaps,  I  may  be  able  to  decide 
upon  the  point. 

E.  These  debates  of  yours  had  one  advantage,  how- 
ever ;  you  could  not  possibly  put  yourself  in  a  passion 
on  such  kind  of  subjects. 

C.  There  you  are  very  much  mistaken.  I  was  con- 
stantly in  a  passion  upon  one  or  the  other  of  them; 
and  if  my  opponent  did  not  agree  with  me,  my  con- 
stant practice  was  to  knock  him  down,  even  if  it  were 
in  the  church.  I  have  the  happiness  of  being  able  to 
interest  myself  in  the  most  indifferent  questions,  as 
soon  as  I  am  contradicted  upon  it.  I  can  make  a  very 
good  dispute  out  of  the  question  whether  the  prefer- 
ence be  due  to  blue  or  green  in  the  color  of  a  jockey's 
cap;  and  would  desire  no  better  cause  of  a  quarrel 
than  whether  a  person's  name  should  be  spelt  with  C 
or  with  K. 

E.   These  constant  disputes  must  have  had  a  very 


328  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBACLD. 

bad  effect  on  your  younger  children.  How  do  you 
hope  ever  to  have  a  quiet  house  ? 

C.  And  yet,  I  do  assure  you,  there  is  no  one  point 
that  I  have  labored  more  than  that  important  one  of 
family  harmony. 

E.    Indeed. 

C.  Yes ;  for  the  sake  of  that  order  and  unanimity 
which  has  always  been  dear  to  me,  I  have  constantly 
insisted  that  all  my  children  should  sneeze  and  blow 
their  nose  at  the  same  time  and  in  the  same  manner. 

E.  May  I  presume  to  ask  the  reason  of  this  in- 
junction ? 

C.  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  see  the  extreme  danger, 
as  well  as  indecorum,  of  suffering  every  one  to  blow 
his  nose  his  own  way  ?  Could  you  trust  any  one  with 
the  keys  of  vour  offices,  who  sneezed  to  the  ricrht  when 
other  people  sneezed  to  the  left,  or  to  the  left  when 
they  sneezed  to  the  right  ? 

E.  I  confess  I  am  rather  dull  in  discerning  the 
inconvenience  that  would  ensue  :  —  but  pray  have  you 
been  able  to  accomplish  this  desirable  uniformity  \ 

C.  I  acknowledge  I  have  not;  and  indeed  I  have 
met  with  so  much  obstinate  resistance  to  this  my  wise 
regulation,  that,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  almost  on 
the  point  of  giving  it  up.  You  would  hardly  believe 
the  perverseness  my  children  have  shown  on  the  occa- 
sion ;  blowing  their  noses,  locked  up  in  their  rooms,  or 


DIALOGUE.  329 

in  dark  corners  abont  the  house,  in  every  possible  way ; 
so  that,  in  short,  on  pretence  of  colds,  tender  noses,  or 
want  of  pocket-handkerchiefs,  or  one  plea  or  another,  I 
have  been  obliged  to  tolerate  the  uncomplying,  very 
much  against  my  will.  However,  I  contrived  to  show 
my  disapprobation,  at  least,  of  such  scandalous  irregu- 
larities, by  never  saying  God  bless  you,  if  a  person 
sneezes  in  the  family  contrary  to  established  rule. 

E.  I  am  glad,  at  least,  you  are  in  this  respect  got  a 
little  nearer  to  common-sense.  As  you  seem  to  have 
been  of  so  imperious  a  disposition,  I  hope  you  were  not 
trusted  with  any  mischievous  weapons  ? 

C.  At  first  I  used  to  fight  with  clubs  and  stones; 
afterwards  with  other  weapons ;  but  at  length  I  con- 
trived to  get  at  gunpowder,  and  then  I  did  glorious 
mischief. 

E.  Pray  had  you  never  anybody  who  taught  you 
better  ? 

C.  Yes ;  ■  several  wise  men,  from  time  to  time,  at- 
tempted to  mend  my  manners,  and  reform  me,  as  they 
called  it. 

E.   And  how  did  you  behave  to  them  ? 

C.  Some  I  hunted  about ;  some  I  poisoned ;  some  I 
contrived  to  have  thrown  into  prison ;  some  I  made 
bonfires  of ;  others  I  only  laughed  at.  It  was  but  the 
other  day  that  one  of  them  wanted  to  give  me  some 
hints  for  the  better  regulation  of  my  family;    upon 


330  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

which  I  pulled  his  house  down :  I  was  often,  however, 
the  better  for  the  lesson,  though  the  teacher  had  seldom 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  it. 

E.  I  have  heard  it  said  you  are  very  partial  to  your 
children;  that  you  pamper  some  and  starve  others. 
Pray  who  are  your  favorites  ? 

C.    Generally,  those  who  do  the  most  mischief. 

E.  Had  you  not  once  a  great  favorite  called  Louis, 
whom  you  used  to  style  the  immortal  man  ? 

C.  I  had  so.  I  was  continually  repeating  his  name  : 
I  set  up  a  great  number  of  statues  to  him,  and  ordered 
that  every  one  should  pull  off  his  hat  to  them  as  he 
went  by. 

E.   And  what  is  become  of  them  now  ? 

C.  The  other  day,  in  a  fit  of  spleen,  I  kicked  them 
all  down  again. 

E.  I  think  I  have  read  that  you  were  once  much 
under  the  influence  of  an  old  man  with  a  high-crowned 
hat,  and  a  bunch  of  keys  by  his  side  ? 

C.  It  is  true.  He  used  to  frighten  me  by  setting 
his  arms  akimbo  and  swearing  most  terribly;  besides 
which  he  was  always  threatening  to  put  me  in  a  dark 
hole,  if  I  did  not  do  as  he  would  have  me.  He  has 
conjured  many  pence  out  of  my  pocket,  I  assure  you ; 
and  he  used  to  make  me  believe  the  strangest  stories ! 
But  I  have  now  pretty  nearly  done  with  him ;  he  dares 
not  speak  so  big  as  he  used  to  do :   hardly  a  shoeblack 


DIALOGUE.  331 

will  pull  off  his  hat  to  him  now ;  it  is  even  as  much  as 
he  can  do  to  keep  his  own  tight  upon  his  head ;  nay,  I 
have  been  assured  that  the  next  high  wind  will  cer- 
tainly blow  it  off. 

E.  You  must  doubtless  have  made  great  advances  in 
the  art  of  reasoning,  from  the  various  lights  and  experi- 
ments of  modern  times :  pray  what  was  the  last  philo- 
sophical study  that  engaged  your  attention  ? 

C.  One  of  the  last  was  a  system  of  quackery  called 
Animal  Magnetism. 

E.   And  what  in  theology  ? 

C.   A  system  of  quackery  called  Swedenborgianism. 

E.   And  pray  what  are  you  doing  at  this  moment  ? 

C.  I  am  going  to  turn  over  quite  a  new  leaf.  I  am 
singing  £a  Ira. 

E.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  going  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf  or  no;  but  I  am  sure,  from  this  ac- 
count, it  is  high  time  you  should.  All  I  can  say  is, 
that  if  I  cannot  mend  you,  I  will  endeavor  to  take  care 
you  do  not  spoil  me ;  and  one  thing  more,  that  I  wish 
you  would  lay  your  commands  on  Miss  Burney  to 
write  a  new  novel,  and  make  you  laugh. 


332 


WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


DIALOGUE  IX  THE   SHADES. 


Clio.  There  is  no  help  for  it,  —  they  must  go.  The 
river  Lethe  is  here  at  hand ;  I  shall  tear  them  off  and 
throw  them  into  the  stream. 

Mercury.  Illustrious  daughter  of  Mnemosyne,  Clio ! 
the  most  respected  of  the  Muses,  —  you  seem  dis- 
turbed. What  is  it  that  brings  us  the  honor  of  a  visit 
from  you  in  these  infernal  regions  ? 

Clio.  You  are  a  god  of  expedients,  Mercury  ;  I  want 
to  consult  you.  I  am  oppressed  with  the  continually 
increasing  demands  upon  me.  I  have  had  more  busi- 
ness for  these  last  twenty  years  than  I  have  often  had 
for  two  centuries  ;  and  if  I  had,  as  old  Homer  says,  "  a 
throat  of  brass  and  adamantine  lungs,"  I  could  never 
get  through  it.  And  what  did  he  want  this  throat  of 
brass  for  ?  for  a  paltry  list  of  ships,  canoes  rather, 
which  would  be  laughed  at  in  the  Admiralty  Office  of 
London.  But  I  must  inform  you,  Mercury,  that  my 
roll  is  so  full,  and  I  have  so  many  applications  which 
cannot  in  decency  be  refused,  that  I  see  no  other  way 
than  striking  off  some  hundreds  of  names  in  order  to 
■make  room ;  and  I  am  come  to  inform  the  shades  of 
my  determination. 


DIALOGUE   IN   THE   SHADES.  333 

Mercury.  I  believe,  Clio,  you  will  do  right ;  and  as 
one  end  of  your  roll  is  a  little  mouldy,  no  dovibt  you 
will  begin  with  that ;  but  the  ghosts  will  raise  a  great 
clamor. 

Clio.  I  expect  no  less  ;  but  necessity  has  no  law. 
All  the  parchment  in  Pergamus  is  used  up,  —  my  roll 
is  long  enough  to  reach  from  earth  to  heaven;  it  is 
grown  quite  cumbrous ;  it  takes  a  life,  as  mortals 
reckon  lives,  to  unroll  it. 

Mercury.  Yet  consider,  Clio,  how  many  of  these 
have  passed  a  restless  life,  and  encountered  all  manner 
of  dangers,  and  bled  and  died,  only  to  be  placed  upon 
your  list,  —  and  now  to  be  struck  off ! 

Clio.  And  committed  all  manner  of  crimes,  you 
might  have  added ;  but  go  they  must.  Besides,  they 
have  been  sufficiently  recompensed.  Have  they  not 
been  praised  and  sung  and  admired  for  some  thousands 
of  years  ?  Let  them  give  place  to  others.  What !  have 
they  no  conscience  ?  no  modesty  ?  Would  Xerxes, 
think  you,  have  reason  to  complain,  when  his  parad- 
ing expeditions  have  already  procured  him  above  two 
thousand  years  of  fame,  though  a  Solyman  or  a  Zingis 
Khan  should  fill  up  his  place  ? 

Mercury.  Surely  you  are  not  going  to  blot  out  Xerxes 
from  your  list  of  names  ? 

Clio.  I  do  not  say  that  I  am ;  but  that  I  keep  him 
is  more  for  the  sake  of  his  antagonists  than  his  own. 


334  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

And  yet  their  places  might  be  well  supplied  by  the 
Swiss  lieroes  of  Morgarten,  or  the  brave  though  unsuc- 
cessful patriot  Aloys  Keding.  —  But  pray  what  noise  is 
that  at  the  gate  ? 

Mercury.  A  number  of  the  shades,  who  have  received 
an  intimation  of  your  purpose,  and  are  come  to  remon- 
strate against  it. 

Clio.  In  the  name  of  all  the  gods  whom  have  we 
here  ?  Hercules,  Theseus,  Jason,  GEdipus,  Bacchus, 
Cadmus  with  a  bag  of  dragons'  teeth,  and  a  whole 
tribe  of  strange,  shadowy  figures  !  I  shall  expect  to 
see  the  Centaurs  and  Lapithae,  or  Perseus  on  his  flying 
courser.  Away  with  them  ;  they  belong  to  my  sisters, 
not  to  me  ;  Melpomene  will  receive  them  gladly. 

Mercury.  You  forget,  Clio,  that  Bacchus  conquered 
India. 

Clio.  And  had  horns  like  Moses,  as  Yossius  is 
pleased  to  say.  ~No,  Mercury,  I  will  have  nothing  to 
do  with  these  ;  if  ever  I  received  them,  it  was  when  I 
was  young  and  credulous.  As  I  have  said,  let  my  sis- 
ters take  them  ;  or  let  them  be  celebrated  in  tales  for 
children. 

Mercury.  That  will  not  do,  Clio.  Children  in  this 
age  read  none  but  wise  books ;  stories  of  giants  and 
dragons  are  all  written  for  grown-up  children  now. 

Clio.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  shall  clear  my  hands  of 
them  and  of  a  great  many  more,  T  do  assure  you. 


DIALOGUE   IN   THE   SHADES.  335 

Mercury.   I  hope  "  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  —  " 

Clio.  Divine  let  it  be,  but  my  share  in  it  is  very 
small ;  I  recollect  furnishing  the  catalogue.  Mercury, 
I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  When  I  was  young,  my 
mother  (as  arrant  a  gossip  as  ever  breathed)  related  to 
me  a  great  number  of  stories ;  and  as  in  those  days 
people  could  not  read  or  write,  I  had  no  better  author- 
ity for  what  I  recorded ;  but  after  letters  were  found 
out,  and  now  since  the  noble  invention  of  printing,  — 
why,  do  you  think,  Mercury,  any  one  would  dare  to  tell 
lies  in  print  ? 

Mercury.  Sometimes,  perhaps.  I  have  seen  a  splen- 
did victory  in  the  gazette  of  one  country  dwindle  into 
an  honorable  retreat  in  that  of  another. 

Clio.  In  newspapers,  very  possibly  ;  but  with  regard 
to  myself,  when  I  have  time  to  consider  and  lay  things 
together,  I  assure  you  you  may  depend  upon  me. 
Whom  have  we  in  that  group  which  I  see  indistinctly 
in  a  sort  of  twilight  ? 

Mercury.  Very  renowned  personages  :  Mnus,  Sesos- 
tris,  Semiramis,  Cheops  who  built  the  largest  pyramid. 

Clio.  If  Cheops  built  the  largest  pyramid,  people  are 
welcome  to  inquire  about  him  at  the  spot,  —  room 
must  be  made.  As  to  Semiramis,  tell  her  her  place 
shall  be  filled  up  by  an  empress  and  a  conqueror  from 
the  shores  of  the  wintry  Baltic. 

Mercury.    The  renowned  Cyrus  is  approaching  with  a 


336  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

look  of  confidence,  for  lie  is  introduced  by  a  favorite  of 
yours,  the  elegant  Xenophon. 

Clio.  Is  that  Cyrus  ?  Pray  desire  him  to  take  off 
that  dress  which  Xenophon  has  given  him.  Truly  I 
took  him  for  a  Greek  philosopher ;  I  fancy  Queen  To- 
myris  would  scarcely  recognize  him. 

Mercury.  Aspasia  hopes,  for  the  honor  of  her  sex, 
that  she  shall  continue  to  occupy  a  place  among  those 
you  celebrate. 

Clio.  Tell  the  mistress  of  Pericles  we  can  spare  her 
without  inconvenience.  Many  ladies  are  to  be  found 
in  modern  times  who  possess  her  eloquence  and  her 
talents,  with  the  modesty  of  a  vestal;  and  should  a 
more  perfect  likeness  be  required,  modern  times  may 
furnish  that  also. 

Mercury.  Here  are  two  figures  who  approach  you 
with  a  very  dignified  air. 

Solon  and  Lycurgus.  "We  present  ourselves,  divine 
Clio,  with  confidence.  "We  have  no  fear  that  you 
should  strike  from  your  roll  the  lawgivers  of  Athens 
and  Sparta. 

Clio.  Most  assuredly  not.  Yet  I  must  inform  you 
that  a  name  higher  than  either  of  yours,  and  a  consti- 
tution more  perfect,  is  to  be  found  in  a  vast  continent, 
of  the  very  existence  of  which  you  had  not  the  least 
suspicion. 

Mercury.    I  see  approaching  a  person  of  a  noble  and 


DIALOGUE   IN   THE    SHADES.  337 

spirited  air,  if  he  did  not  hold  his  head  a  little  on  one 
side  as  if  his  neck  were  awry. 

Alexander.  Clio,  I  need  not  introduce  myself;  I  am, 
as  yon  well  know,  the  son  of  Jupiter  Ammon,  and  my 
arms  have  reached  even  to  the  remote  shore  of  the  Indus. 

Clio.  Pray  burn  your  genealogy;  and  for  the  rest, 
suffer  me  to  inform  you  that  the  river  Indus  and  the 
whole  peninsula  which  you  scarcely  discovered,  with 
sixty  millions  of  inhabitants,  is  at  this  moment  subject 
to  the  dominion  of  a  few  merchants  in  a  remote  island 
of  the  Northern  Ocean,  the  very  name  of  which  never 
reached  your  ears. 

Mercury.  Here  is  Empedocles,  who  threw  himself 
into  Etna  merely  to  be  placed  upon  your  roll ;  and 
Calanus,  who  mounted  his  funeral  pile  before  Alexan- 
der from  the  same  motive. 

Clio.  They  have  been  remembered  long  enough,  in 
all  reason ;  their  places  may  be  supplied  by  the  two 
next  madmen  who  shall  throw  themselves  under  the 
wheels  of  the  chariot  of  Juggernaut,  —  fanatics  are  the 
growth  of  every  age. 

Mercury.  Here  is  a  ghost  preparing  to  address  you 
with  a  very  self-sufficient  air ;  his  robe  is  embroidered 
with  flower-de-luces. 

Louis  XIV.  I  am  persuaded,  Clio,  you  will  recog- 
nize the  immortal  man.  I  have  always  been  a  friend 
and  patron  of  the  Muses  ;  my  actions  are  well  known ; 

VOL.    II.  15  v 


338  -  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

all  Europe  has  resounded  with  my  name,  —  the  terror 
of  other  countries,  the  glory  of  my  own  ;  I  am  well 
assured  you  are  not  going  to  strike  me  off. 

Clio.  To  strike  you  off  ?  certainly  not ;  but  to  place 
you  many  degrees  lower  in  the  list;  to  reduce  you 
from  a  sun,  your  favorite  emblem,  to  a  star  in  the 
galaxy.  My  sisters  have  certainly  been  partial  to  you : 
you  bought  their  favor  with  —  how  many  livres  a  year  ? 
not  much  more  than  a  London  bookseller  will  give  for 
a  quarto  poem.     But  me  you  cannot  bribe. 

Louis.  But,  Clio,  you  have  yourself  recorded  my 
exploits  ;  —  the  passage  of  the  Rhine,  Xamur,  Flanders, 
Franche  Comte. 

Clio.  0  Louis,  if  you  could  but  guess  the  extent  of 
the  present  French  Empire  ;  —  but  no,  it  could  never 
enter  into  your  imagination. 

Louis.  I  rejoice  at  what  you  say ;  I  rejoice  that  my 
posterity  have  followed  my  steps,  and  improved  upon 
my  glory. 

Clio.    Your  posterity  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Louis.  Remember,  too,  the  urbanity  of  my  character, 
how  hospitably  I  received  the  unfortunate  James  of 
England,  —  England,  the  natural  enemy  of  France. 

Clio.  Your  hospitality  has  been  well  returned.  Your 
descendants,  driven  from  their  thrones,  are  at  this 
moment  supported  by  the  bounty  of  the  nation  and 
king  of  England. 


DIALOGUE   IN   THE   SHADES.  339 

Louis.  0  Clio,  what  is  it  that  you  tell  me !  let  me 
hide  my  diminished  head  in  the  deepest  umbrage  of 
the  grove ;  let  me  seek  out  my  dear  Main  tenon,  and 
tell  my  beads  with  her  till  I  forget  that  I  have  been 
either  praised  or  feared. 

Clio.  Comfort  yourself,  however ;  your  name,  like 
the  red  letter  which  marks  the  holiday,  though  insig- 
nificant in  itself,  shall  still  enjoy  the  honor  of  desig- 
nating the  age  of  taste  and  literature. 

Mercury.  Here  is  a  whole  crowd  coming,  Clio,  I  can 
scarcely  keep  them  off  with  my  wand :  they  have  all 
got  notice  of  your  intentions,  and  the  infernal  regions 
are  quite  in  an  uproar,  —  what  is  to  be  done  ? 

Clio.  I  cannot  tell ;  the  numbers  distract  me :  to 
examine  their  pretensions  one  by  one  is  impossible  ;  I 
must  strike  off  half  of  them  at  a  venture :  the  rest 
must  make  room,  —  they  must  crowd,  they  must  fall 
into  the  background;  and  where  I  used  to  write  a 
name  all  in  capitals,  with  letters  of  gold  illuminated, 
I  must  put  it  in  small  'pica.  I  do  assure  you,  Mercury, 
I  cannot  stand  the  fatigue  I  undergo  much  longer.  I 
am  not  provided,  as  you  very  well  know,  with  either 
chariot  or  wings,  and  I  am  expected  to  be  in  all  parts 
of  the  globe  at  once.  In  the  good  old  times  my  busi- 
ness lay  almost  entirely  between  the  Hellespont  and 
the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  with  sometimes  an  excursion 
to  the  mouths  (then  seven)  of  the  Nile  or  the  banks  of 


3-iO  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  Euphrates.  But  now  I  am  required  to  be  in  a 
hundred  places  at  once ;  I  am  called  from  Jena  to  Aus- 
terlitz,  from  Cape  Trafalgar  to  Aboukir,  and  from  the 
Thames  to  the  Ganges  and  Burampooter ;  besides  a 
whole  continent,  a  world  by  itself,  fresh  and  vigorous, 
which  I  foresee  will  find  me  abundance  of  employment. 

Mercury.  Truly  I  believe  so ;  I  am  afraid  the  old 
leaven  is  working  in  the  new  world. 

Clio.  I  am  puzzled  at  this  moment  how  to  give  the 
account,  which  always  is  expected  of  me,  of  the  august 
sovereigns  of  Europe. 

Mercury.   How  so  ? 

Clio.  I  do  not  know  where  to  find  them ;  they  are 
most  of  them  upon  their  travels. 

Mercury.  You  must  have  been  very  much  employed 
in  the  French  Eevolution. 

Clio.  Continually ;  the  actors  in  the  scene  succeeded 
one  another  with  such  rapidity  that  the  hero  of  to-day 
was  forgotten  on  the  morrow.  Xecker,  Mirabeau,  Du- 
mourier,  La  Fayette,  appeared  successively  like  pictures 
in  a  magic  lantern,  —  shown  for  a  moment  and  then 
withdrawn :  and  now  the  space  is  filled  by  one  tremen- 
dous gigantic  figure,  that  throws  his  broad  shadow  over 
half  the  globe. 

Mercury.  The  ambition  of  Napoleon  has  indeed  pro- 
cured you  much  employment. 

Clio.   Employment!     There  is  not  a  goddess  so  -liar-- 


DIALOGUE   IN   THE   SHADES.  341 

assed  as  I  am ;  my  sisters  lead  quite  idle  lives  in 
comparison.  Melpomene  has  in  a  manner  slept  through 
the  last  half-century,  except  when  now  and  then  she 
dictated  to  a  certain  favorite  nymph.  Urania,  indeed, 
has  employed  herself  with  Herschel  in  counting  the 
stars ;  but  her  task  is  less  than  mine.  Here  am  I 
expected  to  calculate  how  many  hundred  thousands  of 
rational  beings  cut  one  another's  throats  at  Austerlitz, 
and  to  take  the  tale  of  two  hundred  and  thirteen  thou- 
sand human  bodies  and  ninety-five  thousand  horses, 
that  lie  stiff,  frozen,  and  unburied  on  the  banks  of  the 
Berecina  ;  —  and  do  you  think,  Mercury,  this  can  be  a 
pleasant  employment  ? 

Mercury.  I  have  had  a  great  increase  of  employment 
myself  lately,  on  account  of  the  multitude  of  shades  I 
have  been  obliged  to  convey ;  and  poor  old  Charon  is 
almost  laid  up  with  the  rheumatism :  we  used  to  have  a 
holiday  comparatively  during  the  winter  months  ;  but 
of  late,  winter  and  summer  I  have  observed  are  much 
alike  to  heroes. 

Clio.  I  wish  to  Jupiter  I  could  resign  my  office  ! 
Son  of  Maia,  I  declare  to  you  I  am  sick  of  the  horrors 
I  record;  I  am  sick  of  mankind.  For  above  these 
three  thousand  years  have  I  been  warning  them  and 
reading  lessons  to  them,  and  they  will  not  mend: 
Robespierre  was  as  cruel  as  Sylla,  and  Napoleon  has 
no  more  moderation  than  Pyrrhus.     The  human  frame, 


342  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

of  curious  texture,  delicately  formed,  feeling,  and  irri- 
table by  the  least  annoyance,  with  face  erect  and  ani- 
mated with  Promethean  fire,  they  wound,  they  lacerate, 
they  mutilate  with  most  perverted  ingenuity.  I  will 
go  and  record  the  actions  of  the  tigers  of  Africa ;  in 
them  such  fierceness  is  natural.  Nay,  the  human  race 
will  be  exterminated  if  this  work  of  destruction  goes 
on  much  longer. 

Mercury.  With  regard  to  that  matter,  Clio,  I  can  set 
your  heart  at  rest.  A  great  philosopher  has  lately 
discovered  that  the  world  is  in  imminent  danger  of 
being  overpeopled,  and  that  if  twenty  or  forty  thou- 
sand men  could  not  be  persuaded  every  now  and  then 
to  stand  and  be  shot  at,  we  should  be  forced  to  eat  one 
another.  This  discovery  has  had  a  wonderful  effect  in 
quieting  tender  consciences.  The  calculation  is  very 
simple,  any  school-boy  will  explain  it  to  you. 

Clio.  0  what  a  number  of  fertile  plains  and  green 
savannas,  and  tracts  covered  with  trees  of  beautiful 
foliage,  have  never  yet  been  pressed  by  human  foot- 
steps !  My  friend  Swift's  project  of  eating  children 
was  not  so  cruel  as  these  bloody  and  lavish  sacrifices 
to  Mars,  the  most  savage  of  all  the  gods. 

Mercury.  You  forget  yourself,  Clio;  Mars  is  not 
worshipped  now  in  Christian  Europe. 

Clio.  By  Jupiter,  but  he  is  !  Have  I  not  seen  the 
bloody  and  torn  banners,  with  martial  music  and  mili- 


DIALOGUE  IN  THE   SHADES.  343 

tary  procession,  brought  into  the  temple,  —  and  whose 
temple  thinkest  thou  ?  and  to  whom  have  thanks  been 
given  on  both  sides,  amidst  smoking  towns  and  wasted 
fields,  after  the  destruction  of  man  and  devastation  of 
the  fair  face  of  nature !  And  Mercury,  god  of  wealth 
and  frauds,  you  have  your  temple  too,  though  your 
name  is  not  inscribed  there. 

Mercury.    I  am  afraid  men  will  always  love  wealth. 

Clio.  0  if  I  had  to  record  only  such  pure  names  as 
Washington  or  a  Howard  ! 

Mercury.  It  would  be  very  gratifying  certainly ;  but 
then,  Clio,  you  would  have  very  little  to  do,  and  might 
almost  as  well  burn  your  roll 


344  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


KNOWLEDGE  AXD   HER  DAUGHTER: 

A  FABLE. 

KNOWLEDGE,  the  daughter  of  Jupiter,  descended 
from  the  skies  to  visit  man.  She  found  him 
naked  and  helpless,  living  on  the  spontaneous  fruits 
of  the  earth,  and  little  superior  to  the  ox  that  grazed 
beside  him.  She  clothed  and  fed  him ;  she  built  him 
palaces  ;  she  showed  him  the  hidden  riches  of  the 
earth,  and  pointed  with  her  finger  the  course  of  the 
stars  as  they  rose  and  set  in  the  horizon.  Man  became 
rich  with  her  gifts  and  accomplished  from  her  con- 
versation. In  process  of  time  Knowledge  became 
acquainted  with  the  schools  of  the  philosophers ;  and 
being  much  taken  with  their  theories  and  their  conver- 
sation, she  married  one  of  them.  They  had  many 
beautiful  and  healthy  children;  but  among  the  rest 
was  a  daughter  of  a  different  complexion  from  all  the 
rest,  whose  name  was  Doubt.  She  grew  up  under 
many  disadvantages ;  she  had  a  great  hesitation  in  her 
speech;  a  cast  in  her  eye,  which,  however,  was  keen 
and  piercing ;  and  was  subject  to  nervous  tremblings. 
Her  mother  saw  her  with  dislike :  but  her  father,  who 


KNOWLEDGE   AND   HER   DAUGHTER.  345 

was  of  the  sect  of  the  Pyrrhonists,  cherished  and 
taught  her  logic,  in  which  she  made  a  great  progress. 
The  Muse  of  History  was  much  troubled  with  her  in- 
trusions :  she  would  tear  out  whole  leaves,  and  blot  over 
many  pages  of  her  favorite  works.  With  the  divines 
her  depredations  were  still  worse :  she  was  forbidden 
to  enter  a  church;  notwithstanding  which  she  would 
slip  in  under  the  surplice,  and  spend  her  time  in  mak- 
ing mouths  at  the  priest.  If  she  got  at  a  library,  she 
destroyed  or  blotted  over  the  most  valuable  manu- 
scripts. A  most  undutiful  child ;  she  was  never  better 
pleased  than  when  she  could  unexpectedly  trip  up  her 
mother's  heels,  or  expose  a  rent  or  an  unseemly  patch 
in  her  flowing  and  ample  garment.  With  mathemati- 
cians she  never  meddled ;  but  in  all  other  systems  of 
knowledge  she  intruded  herself,  and  her  breath  diffused 
a  mist  over  the  page  which  often  left  it  scarcely  legi- 
ble. Her  mother  at  length  said  to  her,  "  Thou  art  my 
child,  and  I  know  it  is  decreed  that  while  I  tread  this 
earth  thou  must  accompany  my  footsteps  ;  but  thou  art 
mortal,  I  am  immortal;  and  there  will  come  a  time 
when  I  shall  be  freed  from  thy  intrusion,  and  shall 
pursue  my  glorious  track  from  star  to  star,  and  from 
system  to  system,  without  impediment  and  without 
check." 

15* 


346  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 


TRUE  MAGICIANS. 

TO  MISS  C. 

MY  DEAR  SARAH,  — I  have  often  reflected, 
since  I  left  you,  on  the  wonderful  powers 
of  magic  exhibited  by  you  and  your  sister.  The 
dim  obscurity  of  that  grotto  hollowed  out  by  your 
hands  under  the  laurel  hedge,  where  you  used  to 
mix  the  ingredients  of  your  incantations,  struck  us 
with  awe  and  terror;  and  the  broom  which  you  so 
often  brandished  in  your  hands  made  you  look  very 
like  witches  indeed.  I  must  confess,  however,  that 
some  doubts  have  now  and  then  arisen  in  my  mind, 
whether  or  no  you  were  truly  initiated  in  the  secrets 
of  your  art;  and  these  suspicions  gathered  strength 
after  you  had  suffered  us  and  yourself  to  be  so 
drenched  as  we  all  were  on  that  rainy  Tuesday ;  which 
to  say  the  least  was  a  very  odd  circumstance,  consider- 
ing you  had  the  command  of  the  weather.  —  As  I  was 
pondering  these  matters  alone  in  the  chaise  between 
Epsom  and  London,  I  fell  asleep  and  had  the  following 
dream. 

I  thought  I  had  been  travelling  through  an  unknown 
country,  and  came  at  last  to  a  thick  wood  cut  out  into 


TRUE   MAGICIANS.  347 

several  groves  and  avenues,  the  gloom  of  which  in- 
spired thoughtfulness,  and  a  certain  mysterious  dread 
of  unknown  powers  came  upon  me.  I  entered,  how- 
ever, one  of  the  avenues,  and  found  it  terminated  in 
a  magnificent  portal,  through  which  I  could  discern 
confusedly,  among  thick  foliage,  cloistered  arches  and 
Grecian  porticos,  and  people  walking  and  conversing 
amongst  the  trees.  Over  the  portal  was  the  following 
inscription :  "  Here  dwell  the  true  magicians.  Nature 
is  our  servant.  Man  is  our  pupil.  We  change,  we  con- 
quer, we  create." 

As  I  was  hesitating  whether  or  no  I  should  presume 
to  enter,  a  pilgrim  who  was  sitting  under  the  shade 
offered  to  be  my  guide,  assuring  me  that  these  magi- 
cians would  do  me  no  harm,  and  that,  so  far  from 
having  any  objection  to  be  observed  in  their  operations, 
they  were  pleased  with  any  opportunity  of  exhibiting 
them  to  .  the  curious.  In,  therefore,  I  went,  and 
addressed  the  first  of  the  magicians  I  met  with,  who 
asked  me  whether  I  liked  panoramas.  On  replying 
that  I  thought  them  very  entertaining,  she  took  me  to 
a  little  eminence  and  bade  me  look  round.  I  did  so, 
and  beheld  the  representation  of  the  beautiful  vale  of 
Dorking,  with  Norbury  Park  and  Box  Hill  to  the  north, 
Reigate  to  the  east,  and  Leith  tower  with  the  Surry 
hills  to  the  south.  After  I  had  admired  for  some  time 
the  beauty  and  accuracy  of  the  painting,  a  vast  curtain 


348  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

seemed  to  "be  drawn  gradually  up,  and  my  view  ex- 
tended on  all  sides.  On  one  hand  I  traced  the  wind- 
ings of  the  Thames  up  to  Oxford,  and  stretched  my  eye 
westward  over  Salisbury  Plain,  and  across  the  Bristol 
Channel  into  the  romantic  country  of  South  Wales; 
northward  the  view  extended  to  Lincoln  cathedral,  and 
York  minster  towering  over  the  rest  of  the  churches. 
Across  the  Sussex  downs  I  had  a  clear  view  of  the 
British  Channel,  and  the  opposite  coast  of  France  with 
its-  ports  blockaded  by  our  fleets.  As  the  horizon  of 
the  panorama  still  extended,  I  spied  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame  and  the  Tuileries,  and  my  eye  wandered 
at  large  over  "  the  vine-covered  hills  and  gay  regions 
of  France,"  quite  down  to  the  source  of  the  Loire.  At 
the  same  time  the  great  Atlantic  Ocean  opened  to  my 
view  ;  and  on  the  other  hand  I  saw  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
and  the  dark  ridge  of  Mount  Jura,  and  discovered  the 
summits  of  the  Alps  covered  with  snow ;  and  beyond, 
the  orange-groves  of  Italy,  the  majestic  dome  of  St. 
Peter's,  and  the  smoking  crater  of  Vesuvius.  As  the 
curtain  still  rose,  I  stretched  my  view  over  the  Medi- 
terranean, the  scene  of  ancient  glory,  the  Archipelago 
studded  with  islands,  the  shores  of  the  Bosphorus,  and 
the  gilded  minarets  and  cypress-groves  of  Constanti- 
nople. Throwing  back  a  look  to  the  less  attractive 
north,  I  saw  pictured  the  rugged,  broken  coast  of  Nor- 
way, the  cheerless  moors  of  Lapland,  and  the  intermi- 


TRUE   MAGICIANS.  349 

nable  desolation  of  the  plains  of  Siberia.  Turning  my 
eye  again  southward,  the  landscape  extended  to  the 
plains  of  Barbary,  covered  with  date-trees ;  and  I  dis- 
cerned the  points  of  pyramids  appearing  above  the 
horizon,  and  saw  the  Delta  and  the  seven-mouthed 
Nile.  In  short,  the  curtain  still  rose,  and  the  view 
extended  further  and  further  till  the  panorama  took  in 
the  whole  globe.  I  cannot  express  to  you  the  pleasure 
I  felt  as  I  saw  mountains,  seas,  and  islands  spread  out 
before  me.  Sometimes  my  eye  wandered  over  the  vast 
plains  of  Tartary,  sometimes  it  expatiated  in  the  savan- 
nas of  America,  I  saw  men  with  dark  skins,  white 
cotton  turbans  wreathed  about  their  heads,  and  long 
flowing  robes  of  silk ;  others  almost  naked  under  a  ver- 
tical sun.  I  saw  whales  sporting  in  the  northern  seas, 
and  elephants  trampling  amidst  fields  of  maize  and 
forests  of  palm-trees.  I  seemed  to  have  put  a  girdle 
about  the  earth,  and  was  gratified  with  an  infinite  vari- 
ety of  objects  which  I  thought  I  never  could  be  weary 
of  contemplating.  At  length,  turning  towards  the  ma- 
gician who  had  entertained  me  with  such  an  agreeable 
exhibition,  and  asking  her  name,  she  informed  me  it 
was  Geography. 

My  attention  was  next  arrested  by  a  sorceress,  who, 
I  was  told,  possessed  the  power  of  calling  up  from  the 
dead  whomsoever  she  pleased,  man  or  woman,  in  their 
proper  habits  and  figures,  and  obliging  them  to  con- 


350  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

verse  and  answer  questions.  She  held  a  roll  of  parch- 
ment in  her  hand,  and  had  an  air  of  great  dignity.  I 
confess  that  I  felt  a  little  afraid;  but  having  been 
somewhat  encouraged  by  the  former  exhibition,  I  ven- 
tured to  ask  her  to  give  me  a  specimen  of  her  power, 
in  case  there  was  nothing  unlawful  in  it.  ""Whom," 
said  she,  "  do  you  wish  to  behold  ? "  After  considering 
some  time,  I  desired  to  see  Cicero  the  Eoman  orator. 
She  made  some  talismanic  figures  on  the  sand,  and 
presently  he  arose  to  my  view,  his  neck  and  head  bare, 
the  rest  of  his  body  in  a  flowing  toga,  which  he  gath- 
ered round  him  with  one  hand,  and  stretching  out  the 
other  very  gracefully  he  recited  to  me  one  of  his  ora- 
tions against  Catiline.  He  also  read  to  me,  which  was 
more  than  I  could  in  reason  have  expected,  several  of 
his  familiar  letters  to  his  most  intimate  friends.  I 
next  desired  that  Julius  Ca?sar  might  be  called  up :  on 
which  he  appeared,  his  hair  nicely  arranged,  and  the 
fore-part  of  his  head,  which  was  bald,  covered  with 
wreaths  of  laurel ;  and  he  very  obligingly  gave  me  a 
particular  account  of  his  expedition  into  Gaul.  I 
wished  to  see  the  youth  of  Maeedon,  but  was  a  little 
disappointed  in  his  figure,  for  he  was  low  in  stature 
and  held  his  head  awry ;  but  I  saw  him  manage  Bu- 
cephalus with  admirable  courage  and  address,  and  was 
afterwards  introduced  with  him  into  the  tent  of  Darius, 
where  I  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  generosity  and 


! 


TRUE   MAGICIANS.  351 

politeness   of  his   behavior.      I   afterwards   expressed 
some  curiosity  to  see  a  battle,  if  I  might  do  it  with 
safety,  and  was  gratified  with  the  sea-fight  of  Actium. 
I  saw,  after  the  first  onset,  the  galleys  of  Cleopatra 
turning  their  prows  and   flying  from  the  battle,  and 
Antony,  to  his  eternal  shame,  quitting  the  engagement 
and  making  sail  after  her.     I  then  wished  to  call  up 
all  the  kings  of  England,  and  they  appeared  in  order 
one  after  the  other,  with  their  crowns  and  the  insignia 
of  their  dignity,  and  walked  over  the  stage  for  my 
amusement,  much  like  the  descendants  of  Banquo  in 
Macbeth.      Their   queens   accompanied  them,  trailing 
their  robes  upon  the  ground,  and  the  bishops  with  their 
mitres,  and  judges,  and  generals,  and  eminent  persons 
of  every  class.     I  asked  many  questions  as  they  passed, 
and  received  a  great  deal  of  information  relative  to  the 
laws,  manners,  and  transactions  of  past  times.     I  did 
not,  however,  always  meet  with  direct  answrers  to  my 
questions.     For  instance,  when  I  called  up  Homer,  and 
after  some  other  conversation  asked  him  where  he  was 
born,   he  only  said,  "  Guess ! "      And  when   I   asked 
Louis  the  Fourteenth  who  was  the  man  in  the  iron 
mask,  he  frowned  and  would  not  tell  me.      I  took  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  in  calling  up  the  shades  of  dis- 
tinguished people  in  different  ages  and  countries,  mak- 
ing them  stand  close  by  one  another,  and  comparing 
their  manners  and  costume.     Thus  I  measured  Catha- 


352  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

rine  of  Russia  against  Semiramis,  and  Aristotle  against 
Lord  Bacon.  I  could  have  spent  whole  years  in  con- 
versation with  so  many  celebrated  persons,  and  prom- 
ised myself  that  I  would  often  frequent  this  obliging 
magician.  Her  name,  I  found,  was  in  heaven  Clio,  on 
earth  History. 

I  saw  another  who  was  making  a  charm  for  two 
friends,  one  of  whom  was  going  to  the  East  Indies ; 
they  were  bitterly  lamenting  that  when  they  were 
parted  at  so  great  a  distance  from  each  other  they 
could  no  longer  communicate  their  thoughts,  but  must 
be  cut  off  from  each  other's  society.  Presenting  them 
with  a  talisman  inscribed  with  four-and-twenty  black 
marks,  "  Take  this,"  she  said ;  "  I  have  breathed  a  voice 
upon  it :  by  means  of  this  talisman  you  shall  still  con- 
verse, and  hear  one  another  as  distinctly  when  half  the 
globe  is  between  you  as  if  you  were  talking  together  in 
the  same  room."  The  two  friends  thanked  her  for  such 
an  invaluable  present,  and  retired.  Her  name  was 
Abracadabra. 

I  was  next  invited  to  see  a  whispering  gallery  of  a 
most  curious  and  uncommon  structure.  To  make  the 
experiment  of  its  powers,  a  young  poet  of  a  very  mod- 
est appearance,  who  was  stealing  along  in  a  retired 
walk,  was  desired  to  repeat  a  verse  in  it.  He  applied 
his  lips  to  the  wall,  aucl  whispered  in  a  low  voice, 
"  Rura  mihi  et  rigui  placeant  in  vallibus  amnes."     The 


TRUE   MAGICIANS.  353 

sound  ran  along  the  walls  for  some  time  in  a  kind  of 
low  whisper;  but  every  minute  it  grew  louder  and 
louder,  till  at  length  it  was  echoed  and  re-echoed  from 
every  part  of  the  gallery,  and  seemed  to  be  pronounced 
by  a  multitude  of  voices  at  once,  in  different  languages, 
till  the  whole  dome  was  filled  with  the  sound.  There 
was  a  strong  smell  of  incense.  The  gallery  was  con- 
structed by  Fame. 

The  good  pilgrim  next  conducted  me  to  a  cave  where 
several  sorceresses,  very  black  and  grim,  were  amusing 
themselves  with  making  lightning,  thunder,  and  earth- 
quakes. I  saw  two  vials  of  cold  liquor  mixed  together, 
and  flames  burst  forth  from  them.  I  saw  some  insig- 
nificant-looking black  grains,  which  would  throw  pal- 
aces and  castles  into  the  air.  I  saw  —  and  it  made  my 
hair  stand  on  end  —  a  headless  man  who  lifted  up  his 
arm  and  grasped  a  sword.  I  saw  men  flying  through 
the  air  without  wings,  over  the  tops  of  towns  and  cas- 
tles, and  come  down  unhurt.  The  cavern  was  very 
black,  and  the  smoke  and  fires  and  mephitic  blasts  and 
sulphureous  vapors  that  issued  from  it  gave  the  whole 
a  very  tremendous  appearance.  I  did  not  stay  long, 
but  as  I  retired  I  saw  Chemistry  written  on  the  walls 
in  letters  of  flame,  with  several  other  names  which  I 
do  not  now  remember. 

My  companion  wThispered  me  that  some  of  these 
were  suspected  of  communication  with  the  evil  genii, 


354  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

and  that  the  demon  of  AYar  had  been  seen  to  resort  to 
the  cave.  "  But  now,"  said  the  pilgrim,  "  I  will  lead 
you  to  enchanters  who  deserve  all  your  veneration,  and 
are  even  more  beneficent  than  those  you  have  already 
seen."  He  then  led  me  to  a  cavern  that  opened  upon 
the  sea-shore ;  it  blew  a  terrible  storm,  the  waves  ran 
mountain  high,  the  wind  roared,  and  vessels  were 
driven  against  each  other  with  a  terrible  shock.  A 
female  figure  advanced  and  threw  a  little  oil  upon  the 
waves ;  they  immediately  subsided,  the  winds  were 
still,  the  storm  was  laid,  and  the  vessels  pursued  their 
course  in  safety.  "  By  what  magic  is  this  performed  -? " 
exclaimed  I.  u  The  magician  is  Meekness"  replied  my 
conductor;  "she  can  smooth  the  roughest  sea  and 
allay  the  wildest  storm." 

My  view  was  next  directed  to  a  poor  wretch  who  lay 
groaning  in  a  most  piteous  manner,  and  crushed  to  the 
earth  with  a  mountain  on  his  breast ;  he  uttered  pier- 
cing shrieks,  and  seemed  totally  unable  to  rise  or  help 
himself.  One  of  these  good  magicians,  whose  name  I 
found  was  Patience,  advanced,  and  struck  the  mountain 
with  a  wand ;  on  which,  to  my  great  surprise,  it  dimin- 
ished to  a  size  not  more  than  the  load  of  an  ordinary 
porter,  which  the  man  threw  over  his  shoulders  with 
something  very  like  a  smile,  and  marched  off  with  a 
firm  step  and  very  composed  air. 

I  must  not  pass  over  a  charmer  of  a  very  pleasing 


TRUE   MAGICIANS.  355 

appearance  and  lively  aspect.  She  possessed  the  power 
(a  very  useful  one  in  a  country  so  subject  to  fogs  and 
rains  as  this  is)  of  gilding  a  landscape  with  sunshine 
whenever  she  breathed  upon  it.  Her  name  was  Cheer- 
fulness. Indeed,  you  may  remember  that  your  papa 
brought  her  down  with  him  on  that  very  rainy  day 
when  we  could  not  go  out  at  all,  and  he  played  on  his 
flute  to  you,  and  you  all  danced. 

I  was  next  struck,  on  ascending  an  eminence,  with  a 
most  dreary  landscape.  All  the  flat  country  was  one 
stagnant  marsh.  Amidst  the  rushy  grass  lay  the  fiend 
Ague,  listless  and  shivering.  On  the  bare  and  bleak 
hills  sat  Famine,  with  a  few  shells  of  acorns  before  her, 
of  which  she  had  eaten  the  fruit.  The  woods  were  tan- 
gled and  pathless ;  the  howl  of  wolves  was  heard.  A 
few  smoky  huts,  or  caves,  not  much  better  than  the 
dens  of  wild  beasts,  were  all  the  habitations  of  men 
that  presented  themselves.  "  Miserable  country  !  "  I 
exclaimed  ;  "  step-child  of  Nature  !  "  "  This,"  said  my 
conductor,  "  is  Britain  as  our  ancestors  possessed  it." 
"  And  by  what  magic,"  I  replied,  "  has  it  been  con- 
verted into  the  pleasant  land  we  now  inhabit  ?  " 
"  You  shall  see,"  said  he.  "  It  has  been  the  work  of 
one  of  our  most  powerful  magicians.  Her  name  is  In- 
dustry!' At  the  word  she  advanced  and  waved  her 
wand  over  the  scene.  Gradually  the  waters  ran  off 
into  separate  channels,  and  left  rich  meadows  covered 


356  „        WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

with  innumerable  flocks  and  herds.  The  woods  disap- 
peared, except  what  waved  gracefully  on  the  tops  of 
the  hills,  or  filled  up  the  unsightly  hollows.  When- 
ever she  moved  her  wand,  roads,  bridges,  and  canals 
laid  open  and  improved  the  face  of  the  country.  A 
numerous  population,  spread  abroad  in  the  fields,  were 
gathering  in  the  harvest.  Smoke  from  warm  cottages 
ascended  through  the  trees,  pleasant  towns  and  villages 
marked  the  several  points  of  distance.  Last,  the 
Thames  was  filled  with  forests  of  masts,  and  proud 
London  appeared  with  all  its  display  of  wealth  and 
grandeur. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  the  pleasure  I  received 
from  this  exhilarating  scene,  or  the  carriage  having  just 
got  upon  the  pavement,  /which  awakened  me ;  but  I 
determined  to  write  out  my  dream,  and  advise  you  to 
cultivate  your  acquaintance  wuth  all  the  true  Arts  of 
Magic. 


THE  PINE  AND   THE   OLIVE.  357 


THE  PDsTE  AND  THE  OLIVE. 

A  FABLE. 

A  STOIC,  swelling  with  the  proud  consciousness 
of  his  own  worth,  took  a  solitary  walk ;  and 
straying  amongst  the  groves  of  Academus,  he  sat  down 
between  an  Olive  and  a  Pine  tree.  His  attention  was 
soon  excited  by  a  murmur  which  he  heard  among  the 
leaves.  The  whispers  increased;  and  listening  atten- 
tively, he  plainly  heard  the  Pine  say  to  the  Olive  as 
follows :  "  Poor  tree  !  I  pity  thee.  Thou  now  spread- 
est  thy  green  leaves  and  exultest  in  all  the  pride  of 
youth  and  spring ;  but  how  soon  will  thy  beauty  be 
tarnished  !  The  fruit  which  thou  exhaustest  thyself 
to  bear  shall  hardly  be  shaken  from  thy  boughs  before 
thou  shalt  grow  dry  and  withered;  thy  green  veins, 
now  so  full  of  juice,  shall  be  frozen ;  naked  and  bare 
thou  wilt  stand  exposed  to  all  the  storms  of  winter, 
whilst  my  firmer  leaf  shall  resist  the  change  of  the  sea- 
sons. Unchangeable  is  my  motto  ;  and  through  the 
various  vicissitudes  of  the  year  I  shall  continue  equally 
green  and  vigorous  as  I  am  at  present." 

The   Olive,   with   a  graceful  wave   of  her  boughs, 


358  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

replied  :  "  It  is  true  thou  wilt  always  continue  as  thou 
art  at  present.  Thy  leaves  will  keep  that  sullen  and 
gloomy  green  in  which  they  are  now  arrayed,  and  the 
stiff  regularity  of  thy  branches  will  not  yield  to  those 
storms  which  will  bow  down  many  of  the  feebler  ten- 
ants of  the  grove.  Yet  I  wish  not  to  be  like  thee.  I 
rejoice  when  Nature  rejoices ;  and  when  I  am  desolate, 
Nature  mourns  with  me.  I  fully  enjoy  pleasure  in  its 
season,  and  I  am  contented  to  be  subject  to  the  influ- 
ences of  those  seasons  and  that  economy  of  Nature  by 
which  I  flourish.  When  the  spring  approaches  I  feel 
the  kindly  warmth ;  my  branches  swell  with  young 
buds,  and  my  leaves  unfold ;  crowds  of  singing  birds 
which  never  visit  thy  noxious  shade  sport  on  my 
boughs ;  my  fruit  is  offered  to  the  gods,  and  rejoices 
men ;  and  when  the  decay  of  nature  approaches,  I 
shed  my  leaves  over  the  funeral  of  the  falling  year,  and 
am  well  contented  not  to  stand  a  single  exemption  to 
the  mournful  desolation  I  see  everywhere  around  me." 

The  Pine  was  unable  to  frame  a  reply ;  and  the  phi- 
losopher turned  away  his  steps  rebuked  and  humbled. 


ON   KIDDLES.  359 


ON  RIDDLES. 

MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIENDS,— I  presume 
you  are  now  all  come  home  for  the  holidays, 
and  that  the  brothers  and  sisters  and  cousins,  papas 
and  mammas,  uncles  and  aunts,  are  all  met  cheerfully 
round  a  Christmas  fire,  enjoying  the  company  of  their 
friends  and  relations,  and  eating  plum-pudding  and 
mince-pie.  These  are  very  good  things ;  but  one 
cannot  always  be  eating  plum-pudding  and  mince-pie : 
the  days  are  short,  and  the  weather  bad,  so  that  you 
cannot  be  much  abroad ;  and  I  think  you  must  want 
something  to  amuse  you.  Besides,  if  you  have  been 
employed  as  you  ought  to  be  at  school,  and  if  you  are 
quick  and  clever,  as  I  hope  you  are,  you  will  want  some 
employment  for  that  part  of  you  which  thinks,  as  well 
as  that  part  of  you  which  eats ;  and  you  will  like 
better  to  solve  a  riddle  than  to  crack  a  nut  or  a  walnut. 
Finding  out  riddles  is  the  same  kind  of  exercise  to  the 
mind  which  running  and  leaping  and  wrestling  in  sport 
are  to  the  body.  They  are  of  no  use  in  themselves,  — 
they  are  not  work,  but  play;  but  they  prepare  the 
body,  and  make  it  alert  and  active  for  anything  it  may 
be  called  to  perform  in  labor  or  war.    So  does  the  finding 


300  WORKS    OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

out  of  riddles,  if  they  are  good  especially,  give  quickness 
of  thought,  and  a  facility  of  turning  about  a  problem 
every  way,  and  viewing  it  in  every  possible  light. 
When  Archimedes,  coming  out  of  the  bath,  cried  in 
transport  uEwreka!n  (I  have  found  it!)  he  had  been 
exercising  his  mind  precisely  in  the  same  manner  as 
you  will  do  when-  you  are  searching  about  for  the  solu- 
tion of  a  riddle. 

And  pray,  when  you  are  got  together,  do  not  let  any 
little  Miss  or  Master  say,  with  an  affected  air,  "  0,  do 
not  ask  me ;  I  am  so  stupid  I  never  can  guess."  They 
do  not  mean  you  should  think  them  stupid  and  dull ; 
they  mean  to  imply  that  these  things  are  too  trifling 
to  engage  their  attention.  If  they  are  employed  better, 
it  is  very  well ;  but  if  not,  say,  "  I  am  very  sorry  in- 
deed you  are  so  dull,  but  we  that  are  clever  and  quick 
will  exercise  our  wits  upon  these ;  and  as  our  arms 
grow  stronger  by  exercise,  so  will  our  wits." 

Biddies  are  of  high  antiquity,  and  were  the  employ- 
ment of  grave  men  formerly.  The  first  riddle  that  we 
have  on  record  was  proposed  by  Samson  at  a  wedding 
feast  to  the  young  men  of  the  Philistines,  who  were 
invited  upon  the  occasion.  The  feast  lasted  seven 
days ;  and  if  they  found  it  out  within  the  seven  days, 
Samson  was  to  give  them  thirty  suits  of  clothes  and 
thirty  sheets ;  and  if  they  could  not  guess  it,  they 
were  to  forfeit  the  same  to -him.    The  riddle  was  :  "Out 


ON   RIDDLES.  361 

of  the  eater  came  forth  meat,  and  out  of  the  strong 
came  forth  sweetness."  He  had  killed  a  lion,  and  left 
its  carcass ;  on  returning  soon  after,  he  found  a  swarm 
of  bees  had  made  use  of  the  skeleton  as  a  hive,  and  it 
was  full  of  honeycomb.  Struck  with  the  oddness  of 
the  circumstance,  he  made  a  riddle  of  it.  They  puz- 
zled about  it  the  whole  seven  days,  and  would  not 
have  found  it  out  at  last  if  his  wife  had  not  told 
them. 

The  Sphinx  was  a  great  riddle-maker.  According 
to  the  fable,  she  was  half  a  woman  and  half  a  lion. 
She  lived  near  Thebes,  and  to  everybody  that  came 
she  proposed  a  riddle ;  and  if  they  did  not  find  it  out, 
she  devoured  them.  At  length  CEdipus  came,  and  she 
asked  him,  "  What  is  that  animal  which  walks  on  four 
legs  in  the  morning,  two  at  noon,  and  three  at  night  ? " 
CEdipus  answered,  "  Man  :  —  in  childhood,  which  is  the 
morning  of  life,  he  crawls  on  his  hands  and  feet ;  in 
middle  age,  which  is  noon,  he  walks  erect  on  two  ;  in 
old  age  he  leans  on  a  crutch,  which  serves  for  a  sup- 
plementary third  foot." 

The  famous  wise  men  of  Greece  did  not  disdain  to 
send  puzzles  to  each  other.  They  are  also  fond  of 
riddles  in  the  East.  There  is  a  pretty  one  in  some 
of  their  tales.  "  What  is  that  tree  which  has  twelve 
branches,  and  each  branch  thirty  leaves,  which  are  all 
black  on  one  side  and  white  on  the  other  ?  "     The  tree 

VOL.    II.  16 


362  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

is  the  year ;  the  branches,  the  months ;  the  leaves,  black 
on  one  side  and  white  on  the  other,  signify  day  and 
night.  Our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors  also  had  riddles, 
some  of  which  are  still  preserved  in  a  very  ancient 
manuscript. 

A  riddle  is  a  description  of  a  thing  without  the 
name  ;  but  as  it  is  meant  to  puzzle,  it  appears  to 
belong  to  something  else  than  what  it  really  does,  and 
often  seems  contradictory ;  but  when  you  have  guessed 
it,  it  appears  quite  clear.  It  is  a  bad  riddle  if  you  are 
at  all  in  doubt,  when  you  have  found  it  out,  whether 
you  are  right  or  no.  A  riddle  is  not  verbal,  as  charades, 
conundrums,  and  rebuses  are :  it  may  be  translated 
into  any  language,  which  the  others  cannot.  Addison 
would  put  them  all  in  the  class  of  false  wit :  but  Swift, 
who  was  as  great  a  genius,  amused  himself  with  mak- 
ing all  sorts  of  puzzles ;  and  therefore  I  think  you  need 
not  be  ashamed  of  reading  them.  It  would  be  pretty 
entertainment  for  you  to  make  a  collection  of  the  better 
ones,  —  for  many  are  so  dull  that  they  are  not  worth 
spending  time  about.  I  will  conclude  by  sending  you 
a  few  which  will  be  new  to  you. 

I. 
I  often  murmur,  yet  I  never  weep ; 
I  always  lie  in  bed,  yet  never  sleep ; 
My  mouth  is  wide,  and  larger  than  my  head, 


OX   RIDDLES.  363 

And  much  disgorges  though  it  ne'er  is  fed ; 
I  have  no  legs  or  feet,  yet  swiftly  run, 
And  the  more  falls  I  get,  move  faster  on. 


II. 
Ye  youths  and  ye  virgins,  come  list  to  my  tale, 
With  youth  and  with  beauty  my  voice  will  prevail. 
My  smile  is  enchanting,  and  golden  my  hair, 
And  on  earth  I  am  fairest  of  all  that  is  fair ; 
But  my  name  it  perhaps  may  assist  you  to  tell, 
That  I  'm  banished  alike  both  from  heaven  and  hell 
There  's  a  charm  in  my  voice,  't  is  than  music  more  sweet, 
And  my  tale  oft  repeated,  untired  I  repeat. 
I  flatter,  I  soothe,  I  speak  kindly  to  all, 
And  wherever  you  go,  I  am  still  within  call. 
Though  I  thousands  have  blest,  't  is  a  strange  thing  to  say, 
That  not  one  of  the  thousands  e'er  wishes  my  stay, 
But  when  most  I  enchant  him,  impatient  the  more, 
The  minutes  seem  hours  till  my  visit  is  o'er. 
In  the  chase  of  my  love  I  am  ever  employed, 
Still,  still  he  's  pursued,  and  yet  never  enjoyed  ; 
O'er  hills  and  o'er  valleys  unwearied  I  fly, 
But  should  I  o'ertake  him,  that  instant  I  die ;     ■ 
Yet  I  spring  up  again,  and  again  I  pursue, 
The  object  still  distant,  the  passion  still  new. 
Now  guess,  —  and  to  raise  your  astonishment  most, 
"While  you  seek  me  you  have  me,  when  found  I  am  lost. 


364  WORKS   OF  MBa   BARBAULD. 

in. 
I  never  talk  but  in  my  sleep ; 
I  never  cry,  but  sometimes  weep ; 
My  doors  are  open  day  and  night ; 
Old  age  I  help  to  better  sight ; 
I,  like  camelion,  feed  on  air, 
And  dust  to  me  is  dainty  fare. 

IV. 

"We  are  spirits  all  in  white, 

On  a  field  as  black  as  night ; 

There  we  dance  and  sport  and  play, 

Changing  every  changing  day  : 

Yet  with  us  is  wisdom  found, 

As  we  move  in  mystic  round. 

Mortals,  wouldst  thou  know  the  grains 

That  Ceres  heaps  on  Libya's  plains, 

Or  leaves  that  yellow  Autumn  strews, 

Or  the  stars  that  Herschel  views, 

Or  find  how  many  drops  would  drain 

The  wide-scooped  bosom  of  the  main, 

Or  measure  central  depths  below,  — 

Ask  of  us,  and  thou  shalt  know. 

"With  fairy  feet  Ave  compass  round 

The  pyramid's  capacious  bound, 

Or  step  by  step  ambitious  climb 

The  cloud-capt  mountain's  height  sublime. 


OX   RIDDLES.  365 

Kiches  though  we  do  not  use, 
'T  is  ours  to  gain,  and  ours  to  lose. 
From  Araby  the  Blest  we  came, 
In  every  land  our  tongue  's  the  same ; 
And  if  our  number  you  require, 
Go  count  the  bright  Aonian  quire. 
Wouldst  thou  cast  a  spell  to  find 
The  track  of  light,  the  speed  of  wind, 
Or  when  the  snail  with  creeping  pace 
Shall  the  swelling  globe  embrace  ; 
Mortal,  ours  the  powerful  spell ;  — 
Ask  of  us,  for  we  can  tell. 

v. 

An  unfortunate  maid, 

I  by  love  was  betrayed, 
And  wasted  and  pined  by  my  grief; 

To  deep  solitudes  then, 

Of  rock,  mountain,  and  glen, 
From  the  world  I  retired  for  relief. 

Yet  there  by  the  sound 

Of  my  voice  I  am  found, 
Though  no  footstep  betrays  where  I  tread ; 

The  poet  and  lover, 

My  haunts  to  discover, 
Still  leave  at  the  dawn  their  soft  bed. 


366  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

If  the  poet  sublime 

Address  me  in  rime, 
In  rime  I  support  conversation ; 

To  the  lover's  fond  moan 

I  return  groan  for  groan, 
And  by  sympathy  give  consolation. 

Though  I  'm  apt,  't  is  averred, 

To  love  the  last  word, 
Nor  can  I  pretend  't  is  a  fiction ; 

I  shall  ne'er  be  so  rude 

On  your  talk  to  intrude 
With  anything  like  contradiction. 

The  fair  damsels  of  old 
By  their  mothers  were  told, 

That  maids  should  be  seen  and  not  heard ; 
The  reverse  is  my  case, 
For  you  'U  ne'er  see  my  face, 

To  my  voice  all  my  charms  are  transferred. 

From  rosy  bowers  we  issue  forth, 
From  east  to  west,  from  south  to  north, 
Unseen,  unfelt,  by  night,  by  day, 
Abroad  we  take  our  airy  way : 
"We  foster  love  and  kindle  strife, 


ON   KIDDLES.  367 

The  bitter  and  the  sweet  of  life  ; 
Piercing  and  sharp,  we  wound  like  steel ; 
Now,  smooth  as  oil,  those  wounds  we  heal : 
Not  strings  of  pearl  are  valued  more, 
Or  gems  enchased  in  golden  ore ; 
Yet  thousands  of  us  every  day, 
Worthless  and  vile,  are  thrown  away. 
Ye  wise,  secure  wTith  bars  of  brass 
The  double  doors  through  which  we  pass ; 
For,  once  escaped,  back  to  our  cell 
No  human  art  can  us  compel. 


368  WOKKS   OF  MBS.   BAEBAULD. 

ENIGMA. 

TO  THE  LADIES. 

HARD  is  my  stem  and  dry,  no  root  is  found 
To  draw  nutritious  juices  from  the  ground  ; 
Yet  of  your  ivory  fingers'  magic  touch 
The  quickening  power  and  strange  effect  is  such, 
My  shrivelled  trunk  a  sudden  shade  extends, 
And  from  rude  storms  your  tender  frame  defends ; 
A  hundred  times  a  day  my  head  is  seen 
Crowned  with  a  floating  canopy  of  green ; 
A  hundred  times,  as  struck  with  sudden  blight, 
The  spreading  verdure  withers  to  the  sight.     - 
Not  Jonah's  gourd  by  power  unseen  was  made 
So  soon  to  flourish,  and  so  soon  to  fade. 
Unlike  the  Spring's  gay  race,  I  flourish  most 
When  groves  and  gardens  all  their  blooms  have  lost ; 
Lift  my  green  head  against  the  rattling  hail, 
And  brave  the  driving  snows  and  freezing  gale ; 
And  faithful  lovers  oft,  when  storms  impend, 
Beneath  my  friendly  shade  together  bend, 
There  join  their  heads  within  the  green  recess, 
And  in  the  close-wore  covert  nearer  press. 
But  lately  am  I  known  to  Britain's  isle, 
Enough  —  You  've  guessed  —  I  see  it  by  your  smile. 


THE  KING  IN   HIS  CASTLE.  3G9 


THE  KING  W  HIS   CASTLE. 

MY  DEAE  LUCY,  — Have  you  made  out  who 
the  Four  Sisters  are  ?  If  you  have,  I  will  tell 
you  another  story.  It  is  about  a  monarch  who  lives  in 
a  sumptuous  castle,  raised  high  above  the  ground  and 
built  with  exquisite  art.  He  takes  a  great  deal  of 
state  upon  him,  and,  like  Eastern  monarchs,  transacts 
everything  by  means  of  his  ministers ;  for  he  never 
appears  himself,  and  indeed  lives  in  so  retired  a  man- 
ner that,  though  it  has  often  excited  the  curiosity  of 
his  subjects,  his  residence  is  hidden  from  them  with  as 
much  jealous  care  as  that  of  Pygmalion  was  from  the 
Tynans  ;  and  it  has  never  been  discovered  with  any 
certainty  which  of  the  chambers  of  the  castle  he  actu- 
ally inhabits,  though  by  means  of  his  numerous  spies 
he  is  acquainted  with  what  passes  in  every  one  of 
them. 

But  I  must  proceed  to  give  you  some  account  of  his 
chief  ministers;  and  I  will  begin  with  two  who  are 
mutes.  Their  office  is  to  bring  him  quick  and  faithful 
intelligence  of  all  that  is  going  forward ;  this  they  per- 
form in  a  very  ingenious  manner.  You  have  heard  of 
the  Mexicans,  who,  not  having  the  art  of  writing,  sup- 
16*  x 


370  WORKS   OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 

plied  the  deficiency  by  painting  everything  they  have 
a  mind  to  communicate ;  so  that  when  the  Spaniards 
came  amongst  them  they  sent  regular  accounts  to  the 
king  of  their  landing  and  all  their  proceedings,  in  very 
intelligible  language,  without  writing  a  single  word. 
Now  this  is  just  the  method  of  these  two  mutes ;  they 
are  continually  employed  in  making  pictures  of  every- 
thing that  passes,  which  they  do  with  wonderful  quick- 
ness and  accuracy,  all  in  miniature,  but  in  exact  pro- 
portion, and  colored  after  life.  These  pictures  they 
bring  every  moment  to  a  great  gate  of  the  palace, 
where  the  king  receives  them. 

The  next  I  shall  mention  are  two  drummers.  These 
have  each  a  great  drum,  on  which  they  beat  soft  or 
loud,  quick  or  slow,  according  to  the  occasion.  They 
often  entertain  the  king  with  music ;  besides  which 
they  are  arrived  at  such  wonderful  perfection  upon 
their  instrument,  and  make  the  strokes  with  such  pre- 
cision, that  by  the  different  beats  accompanied  by 
proper  pauses  and  intervals  they  can  express  anything 
they  wish  to  tell ;  and  the  king  relies  upon  them  as 
much  as  upon  his  mutes.  There  is  a  sort  of  covered 
way,  made  in  the  form  of  a  labyrinth,  from  the  station 
of  the  drummers  to  the  inner  rooms  of  the  palace. 

There  is  a  pair  of  officers  —  for  you  must  know  the 
offices  go  mightily  by  pairs  —  whose  department  it  is 
to   keep    all   nuisances   from   the    palace.     They   are 


THE  KING  IN   HIS   CASTLE.  371 

lodged  for  that  purpose  under  a  shed  or  penthouse 
built  with  that  view  before  the  front  of  the  palace. 
They  likewise  gather  and  present  to  the  monarch  sweet 
odors,  essences,  and  perfumes,  with  which  he  regales 
himself.  They  likewise  inspect  the  dishes  that  are 
served  up  at  his  table ;  and  if  any  of  them  are  not  fit 
to  be  eaten,  they  give  notice  for  their  removal;  and 
sometimes,  if  anything  offensive  is  about  to  enter  the 
palace,  they  order  the  agents  to  shut  two  little  doors 
which  are  in  their  keeping,  and  by  that  means  prevent 
its  entrance. 

The  agents  are  two  very  active  officers  of  long  reach 
and  quick  execution.  The  executive  part  of  govern- 
ment is  chiefly  intrusted  to  them ;  they  obey  the  king's 
commands  with  a  readiness  and  vigor  truly  admirable  ; 
they  defend  the  castle  from  all  assaults,  and  are  vigi- 
lant in  keeping  at  a  distance  every  annoyance.  Their 
office  is  branched  out  into  ten  subordinate  ones,  but 
in  cases  which  require  great  exertion  they  act  together. 

I  must  not  omit  the  beef-eaters.  These  stand  in 
rows  at  the  great  front  gate  of  the  palace,  much  as  they 
do  at  St.  James's,  only  that  they  are  dressed  in  white. 
Their  office  is  to  prepare  the  viands  for  the  king,  who 
is  so  very  lazy  and  so  much  accustomed  to  have  every- 
thing done  for  him,  that,  like  the  king  of  Bantam  and 
some  other  Eastern  monarchs,  he  requires  his  meat  to 
be  chewed  before  it  is  presented  to  him. 


372  WORKS    OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

Close  by  the  beef- eaters  lives  the  king's  orator,  a  fat, 
portly  gentleman,  of  something  of  a  Dutch  make,  but 
remarkably  voluble  and  nimble  in  his  motions  notwith- 
standing. He  delivers  the  king's  orders  and  explains 
his  will  This  gentleman  is  a  good  deal  of  an  epicure, 
which  I  suppose  is  the  reason  he  has  his  station  so 
near  to  the  beef-eaters.  He  is  a  perfect  connoisseur  in 
good  eating,  and  assumes  a  right  of  tasting  all  the 
dishes  ;  and  the  king  pays  the  greatest  regard  to  his 
opinion.  Justice  obliges  me  to  confess  that  this  orator 
is  one  of  the  most  flippant  and  ungovernable  of  the 
king's  subjects. 

Among  the  inferior  officers  are  the  porters,  two  stout, 
lusty  fellows  who  carry  the  king  about  from  place  to 
place  (for  I  am  sure  you  are  by  this  time  too  well 
acquainted  with  his  disposition  to  suppose  he  performs 
that  office  for  himself) ;  but  as  most  great  men's  offi- 
cers have  their  deputies,  so  these  lazy  porters  are  very 
apt  to  get  their  business  done  by  deputy,  and  to  have 
people  to  carry  them  about. 

I  should  never  have  done  if  I  were  to  mention  all 
the  particulars  of  the  domestic  establishment  and  inter- 
nal economy  of  the  castle,  which  is  all  arranged  with 
wonderful  art  and  order ;  how  the  outgoings  are  pro- 
portioned to  the  income,  and  what  a  fellow-feeling 
there  is  between  all  the  members  of  the  family  from 
the  greatest  to  the  meanest.     The  king,  from  his  high 


THE  KING  IN  HIS   CASTLE.  373 

birth,  on  which  he  values  himself  much,  —  being  of  a 
race  and  lineage  quite  different  from  any  of  his  sub- 
jects,—  and  from  his  superior  capacity,  claims  the 
most  absolute  obedience ;  though,  as  is  frequently  the 
case  with  kings,  he  is  in  fact  most  commonly  governed 
by  his  ministers,  who  lead  him  where  they  please 
without  his  being  sensible  of  it.  As  you,  my  dear 
Lucy,  have  had  more  conversation  with  this  king  than 
most  of  your  age  have  been  honored  with,  I  dare  say 
you  will  be  at  no  loss  in  pointing  him  out.  I  therefore 
add  no  more,  but  that  I  am 

Yours,  etc. 


374  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 


THE  MISSES.* 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  CARELESS  GIRL. 

WE  were  talking  last  night,  my  dear  Anne,  of  a 
family  of  misses  whose  acquaintance  is  gener- 
ally avoided  by  people  of  sense.  They  are  most  of 
them  old  maids ;  which  is  not  very  surprising,  consid- 
ering that  the  qualities  they  possess  are  not  the  most 
desirable  for  a  helpmate.  They  are  a  pretty  numerous 
clan,  and  I  shall  endeavor  to  give  you  such  a  descrip- 
tion of  them  as  may  enable  you  to  decline  their  visits  ; 
especially  as,  though  many  of  them  are  extremely 
unlike  in  feature  and  temper,  and  indeed  very  distantly 
related,  yet  they  have  a  wonderful  knack  at  introdu- 
cing each  other,  so  that  if  you  open  your  doors  to  one 
of  them,  you  are  very  likely  in  process  of  time  to  be 
troubled  with  the  whole  tribe. 

The  first  I  shall  mention  —  and  indeed  she  deserves 
to  be  mentioned  first,  for  she  always  was  fond  of  being 
a  ringleader  of  her  company  —  is  Miss  Chief.  This 
young  lady  was  brought  up,  until  she  was  fourteen,  in 
a  large  rambling  mansion  in  the  country,  where  she 
was  allowed  to  romp  all  day  with  the  servants  and  idle 

*  Juvenile  Forget-me-not  of  1830. 


THE   MISSES.  375 

boys  of  the  neighborhood.  There  she  employed  herself 
in  the  summer  in  milking  into  her  bonnet,  tying  the 
grass  together  across  the  path  to  throw  people  down, 
and  in  the  winter  making  slides  before  the  door  for  the 
same  purpose ;  and  the  accidents  these  '  gave  rise  to 
always  procured  her  the  enjoyment  of  a  hearty  laugh. 
She  was  a  great  lover  of  fun,  and  at  Christmas  time 
distinguished  herself  by  various  tricks,  such  as  putting 
furze  balls  into  the  beds,  drawing  off  the  clothes  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  pulling  people's  seats  from 
under  them.  At  length  as  a  lady  who  was  coming  to 
visit  the  family,  mounted  on  rather  a  skittish  horse, 
rode  up  to  the  door,  Miss  Chief  ran  up  and  unfurled 
an  umbrella  full  in  the  horse's  face,  which  occasioned 
him  to  throw  his  rider,  who  broke  her  arm.  After  this 
exploit  miss  was  sent  off  to  a  boarding-school;  here 
she  was  no  small  favorite  with  the  girls,  whom  she  led 
into  all  manner  of  scrapes,  and  no  small  plague  to  the 
poor  governess,  whose  tables  were  hacked,  and  beds 
cut,  and  curtains  set  on  fire  continually.  It  is  true 
miss  soon  laid  aside  her  romping  airs  and  assumed  a 
very  demure  appearance ;  but  she  was  always  playing 
one  sly  trick  or  another,  and  had  learned  to  tell  lies  in 
order  to  lay  it  upon  the  innocent.  At  length  she  was 
discovered  in  writing  anonymous  letters  by  which 
whole  families  in  the  town  had  been  set  at  variance  ; 
and  she  was  then  dismissed  the  school  with  ignominy. 


376  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

She  has  since  lived  a  very  busy  life  in  the  world ;  sel- 
dom is  there  a  great  crowd  of  which  she  does  not  make 
one,  and  she  has  even  frequently  been  taken  ud  for 
riots  and  other  disorderly  proceedings  very  unbecoming 
to  her  sex. 

The  next  I  shall  introduce  to  your  acquaintance  is  a 
city  lady,  Miss  Management ;  a  very  stirring,  notable 
woman,  always  in  a  bustle  and  always  behindhand. 
In  the  parlor  she  saves  candle-ends ;  in  the  kitchen 
everything  is  waste  and  extravagance.  She  hires  her 
servants  at  half  wages  and  changes  them  at  every  quar- 
ter. She  is  a  great  buyer  of  cheap  bargains ;  but  as 
she  cannot  always  use  them,  they  grow  worm  and 
moth  eaten  on  her  hands.  "When  she  pays  a  long  score 
to  her  butcher,  she  wrangles  for  the  odd  pence,  and  for- 
gets to  add  up  the  pounds.  Though  it  is  her  great 
study  to  save,  she  is  continually  outrunning  her  income ; 
winch  is  partly  owing  to  her  trusting  a  cousin  of  hers, 
Miss  Calculation,  with  the  settling  of  her  accounts,  — 
who,  it  is  very  well  known,  could  never  be  persuaded 
to  learn  perfectly  her  multiplication-table,  or  state 
rightly  a  sum  in  the  rule  of  three. 

Miss  Lay  and  Miss  Place  are  sisters,  great  slatterns. 
When  Miss  Place  gets  up  in  the  morning  she  cannot 
find  her  combs,  because  she  has  put  them  in  her  writ- 
ing-box. Miss  Lay  would  willingly  go  to  work,  but 
her  housewife  is  in  the  drawer  of  the  kitchen  dresser, 


THE   MISSES.  377 

her  bag  hanging  on  a  tree  in  the  garden,  and  her  thim- 
ble anywhere  but  in  her  pocket.  If  Miss  Lay  is  going 
a  journey,  the  keys  of  her  trunk  are  sure  to  be  lost. 
If  Miss  Place  wants  a  volume  out  of  her  bookcase,  she 
is  certain  not  to  find  it  along  with  the  rest  of  the  set. 
If  you  peep  into  Miss  Place's  dressing-room,  you  find 
drawers  filled  with  foul  linen,  and  her  best  cap  hanging 
upon  the  carpet-broom.  If  you  call  Miss  Lay  to  take 
a  lesson  in  drawing,  she  is  so  long  in  gathering  together 
her  pencils,  her  chalk,  her  india-rubber,  and  her  draw- 
ing-paper, that  her  master's  hour  is  expired  before  she 
has  well  got  her  materials  together. 

Miss  Understanding.  This  lady  comes  of  a  respect- 
able family,  and  has  a  half-sister  distinguished  for  her 
good  sense  and  solidity ;  but  she  herself,  though  not  a 
little  fond  of  reasoning,  always  takes  the  perverse  side 
of  the  question.  She  is  often  seen  with  another  of  her 
intimates,  Miss  Representation,  who  is  a  great  tale- 
bearer, and  goes  about  from  house  to  house  telling  peo- 
ple what  such  a  one  and  such  a  one  said  of  them 
behind  their  backs.  Miss  Eepresentation  is  a  notable 
story-teller,  and  can  so  change,  enlarge,  and  dress  up 
an  anecdote,  that  the  person  to  whom  it  happened  shall 
not  know  it  again.  How  many  friendships  have  been 
broken  by  these  two,  or  turned  into  bitter  enmities  ! 
The  latter  lady  does  a  great  deal  of  varnish-work 
which  wonderfully  sets  off  her  paintings,  —  for  she  pre- 


378  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARDAULD. 

tends  to  use  the  pencil ;  but  her  productions  are  such 
miserable  daubings,  that  it  is  the  varnish  alone  which 
makes  them  pass  to  the  most  common  eye.  Though 
she  has  all  sorts,  black  varnish  is  what  she  uses  most. 
As  I  wish  you  very  much  to  be  on  your  guard  against 
this  lady  whenever  you  meet  her  in  company,  I  must 
tell  you  she  is  to  be  distinguished  by  an  ugly  leer  ;  it  is 
quite  out  of  her  power  to  look  straight  at  any  object. 

Miss  Trust,  a  sour  old  creature,  wrinkled  and  shaking 
with  palsy.  She  is  continually  peejjing  and  prying 
about,  in  the  expectation  of  finding  something  wrong. 
She  watches  her  servants  through  the  kevhole,  and  has 
lost  all  her  friends  by  little  shynesses  that  have  arisen 
no  one  knows  how.  She  is  worn  away  to  skin  and 
bone,  and  her  voice  never  rises  above  a  whisper. 

Miss  Rule.  This  lady  is  of  a  very  lofty  spirit,  and, 
had  she  been  married,  would  certainly  have  governed 
her  husband ;  as  it  is,  she  interferes  very  much  in  the 
management  of  families,  and,  as  she  is  very  highly  con- 
nected, she  has  as  much  influence  in  the  fashionable 
world  as  amongst  the  lower  classes.  She  even  inter- 
feres in  political  concerns  ;  and  I  have  heard  it  whis- 
pered that  there  is  scarcely  a  cabinet  in  Europe  where 
she  has  not  some  share  in  the  direction  of  affairs. 

Miss  Hap  and  Miss  Chance.  These  are  twin  sisters, 
so  like  as  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  each  other. 
Their  whole  conversation  turns  on  little  disasters  j  one 


THE   MISSES.  379 

tells  you  how  her  lap-dog  spoiled  a  new  Wilton  carpet, 
the  other  how  her  new  muslin  petticoat  was  torn  by  a 
gentleman's  setting  his  foot  upon  it.  They  are  both 
left-handed,  and  so  exceedingly  awkward  and  ungainly, 
that,  if  you  trust  either  of  them  with  but  a  cup  and 
saucer,  you  are  sure  to  have  them  broken.  These  ladies 
used  frequently  to  keep  days  for  visiting  ;  and  as  people 
were  not  very  fond  of  meeting  them,  many  used  to 
shut  themselves  up  and  see  no  company  on  those  days, 
for  fear  of  stumbling  on  either  of  them.  Some  people 
even  now  will  hardly  open  their  doors  on  Friday  for 
fear  of  letting  them  in. 

Miss  Take.  This  lady  is  an  old,  doting  woman,  who 
is  purblind  and  has  lost  her  memory.  She  invites  her 
acquaintances  on  wrong  days,  calls  them  by  wrong 
names,  and  always  intends  to  do  just  the  contrary 
thing  to  what  she  does. 

Miss  Fortune.  This  lady  has  the  most  forbidding 
look  of  any  of  the  clan,  and  people  are  sufficiently  dis- 
posed to  avoid  her  as  much  as  it  is  in  their  power  to 
do ;  yet  some  pretend  that,  notwithstanding  the  stern- 
ness of  her  countenance  on  the  first  address,  her  physi- 
ognomy softens  as  you  grow  more  familiar  with  her, 
and  though  she  has  it  not  in  her  power  to  be  an  agree- 
able acquaintance,  she  has  sometimes  proved  a  valuable 
friend.  There  are  lessons  which  none  can  teach  so 
well  as  herself ;  and  the  wisest  philosophers  have  not 


380  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

scrupled  to  acknowledge  themselves  better  for  her  com- 
pany. I  may  add  that,  notwithstanding  her  want  of 
external  beauty,  one  of  the  best  poets  of  our  language 
fell  in  love  with  her,  and  wrote  a  beautiful  ode  to  her 
praise. 


THE  FOUR   SISTERS.  381 


THE  EOUK   SISTEKS.* 

I  AM  one  of  four  sisters ;  and,  having  some  reason 
to  think  myself  not  well  used,  either  by  them  or 
by  the  world,  I  beg  leave  to  lay  before  yon  a  sketch  of 
our  history  and  characters.  You  will  not  wonder  that 
there  should  be  frequent  bickerings  amongst  us,  when 
I  tell  you,  that,  in  our  infancy,  we  were  continually 
fighting ;  and,  so  great  was  the  noise  and  din  and  con- 
fusion, in  our  constant  struggles  to  get  uppermost,  that 
it  was  impossible  for  anybody  to  live  amongst  us  in 
such  a  scene  of  tumult  and  disorder.  These  brawls, 
however,  by  a  powerful  interposition,  were  put  an  end 
to ;  our  proper  place  was  assigned  to  each  of  us ;  and 
we  had  strict  orders  not  to  encroach  on  the  limits  of 
each  other's  property,  but  to  join  our  common  offices 
for  the  good  of  the  whole  family. 

My  first  sister  (I  call  her  the  first,  because  we  have 
generally  allowed  her  the  precedence  in  rank)  is,  I 
must  acknowledge,  of  a  very  active,  sprightly  disposi- 
tion; quick  and  lively,  and  has  more  brilliancy  than 
any  of  us ;  but  she  is  hot :  everything  serves  for  fuel  to 
her  fury,  when  it  is  once  raised  to  a  certain  degree; 

*  Evenings  at  Home. 


382  WORKS   OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 

and  she  is  so  mischievous,  whenever  she  gets  the  upper 
hand,  that,  notwithstanding  her  aspiring  disposition, 
if  I  may  freely  speak  my  mind,  she  is  calculated  to 
make  a  good  servant,  but  a  very  bad  mistress. 

I  am  almost  ashamed  to  mention,  that,  notwithstand- 
ing her  seeming  delicacy,  she  has  a  most  voracious 
appetite,  and  devours  everything  that  comes  in  her 
way ;  though,  like  other  eager,  thin  people,  she  does  no 
credit  to  her  keeping.  Many  a  time  has  she  consumed 
the  product  of  my  barns  and  storehouses ;  but  it  is  all 
lost  upon  her.  She  has  even  been  known  to  get  into 
an  oil-shop  or  tallow-chandler's,  when  everybody  was 
asleep,  and  lick  up,  with  the  utmost  greediness,  what- 
ever she  found  there.  Indeed,  all  prudent  people  are 
aware  of  her  tricks ;  and,  though  she  is  admitted  into 
the  best  families,  they  take  care  to  watch  her  very 
narrowly.  I  should  not  forget  to  mention  that  my  sis- 
ter was  once  in  a  country  where  she  was  treated  with 
uncommon  respect.  She  was  lodged  in  a  sumptuous 
building,  and  had  a  number  of  young  women  of  the 
best  families  to  attend  on  her,  and  feed  her,  and  watch 
over  her  health ;  in  short,  she  was  looked  upon  as 
something  more  than  a  common  mortal.  But  she 
always  behaved  with  great  severity  to  her  maids ;  and 
if  any  of  them  were  negligent  of  their  duty,  or  made  a 
slip  in  their  own  conduct,  nothing  would  serve  her  but 
burying  the  poor  girls  alive.     I  have  myself  had  some 


THE   FOUR   SISTERS.  383 

dark  hints  and  intimations,  from  the  most  respectable 
authority,  that  she  will  some  time  or  other  make  an 
end  of  me.  You  need  not  wonder,  therefore,  if  I  am 
jealous  of  her  motions. 

The  next  sister  I  shall  mention  to  you  has  so  far  the 
appearance  of  modesty  and  humility  that  she  generally 
seeks  the  lowest  place.  She  is,  indeed,  of  a  very  yield- 
ing, easy  temper,  generally  cool,  and  often  wears  a 
sweet,  placid  smile  upon  her  countenance.  But  she  is 
easily  ruffled ;  and  when  worked  up,  as  she  often  is,  by 
another  sister,  whom  I  shall  mention  to  you  by  and  by, 
she  becomes  a  perfect  fury.  Indeed,  she  is  so  apt  to 
swell  with  sudden  gusts  of  passion  that  she  is  sus- 
pected, at  times,  to  be  a  little  lunatic.  Between  her 
and  my  first-mentioned  sister  there  is  a  more  settled 
antipathy  than  between  the  Theban  pair;  and  they 
never  meet  without  making  efforts  to  destroy  one 
another.  With  me  she  is  always  ready  to  form  the 
most  intimate  union,  but  it  is  not  always  to  my  advan- 
tage. There  goes  a  story  in  our  family,  that,  when  we 
were  all  young,  she  once  attempted  to  drown  me.  She 
actually  kept  me  under  a  considerable  time;  and 
though,  at  length,  I  got  my  head  above  water,  my  con- 
stitution is  generally  thought  to  have  been  essentially 
affected  by  it.  From  that  time  she  has  made  no  such 
atrocious  attempt,  but  she  is  continually  making  en- 
croachments upon  my  property;   and,  even  when  she 


384  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

appears  most  gentle,  she  is  very  insidious,  and  has  such 
an  undermining  way  with  her  that  her  insinuating  arts 
are  as  much  to  be  dreaded  as  open  violence.  I  might, 
indeed,  remonstrate ;  but  it  is  a  known  part  of  her 
character  that  nothing  makes  any  lasting  impression 
upon  her. 

As  to  my  third  sister,  I  have  already  mentioned  the 
ill  offices  she  does  me,  with  my  last-mentioned  one, 
who  is  entirely  under  her  influence.  She  is,  besides, 
of  a  very  uncertain,  variable  temper;  sometimes  hot, 
and  sometimes  cold,  nobody  knows  where  to  find  her. 
Her  lightness  is  even  proverbial ;  and  she  has  notliing 
to  give  those  who  live  with  her  more  substantial  than 
the  smiles  of  courtiers.  I  must  add  that  she  keeps  in 
her  service  three  or  four  rough,  blustering  bullies,  with 
puffed  cheeks,  who,  when  they  are  let  loose,  think  they 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  drive  the  world  before  them. 
She  sometimes  joins  with  my  first  sister,  and  their  vio- 
lence occasionally  throws  me  into  such  a  trembling, 
that,  though  naturally  of  a  firm  constitution,  I  shake 
as  if  I  was  in  an  ague-fit. 

As  to  myself,  I  am  of  a  steady,  solid  temper;  not 
shining,  indeed,  but  kind  and  liberal,  quite  a  Lady 
Bountiful.  Every  one  tastes  of  my  beneficence ;  and  I 
am  of  so  grateful  a  disposition,  that  I  have  been  known 
to  return  a  hundred-fold  for  any  present  that  has  been 
made  me.      I  feed  and   clothe  all  my  children,  and 


THE   FOUR   SISTERS.  385 

afford  a  welcome  home  to  the  wretch  who  has  no  other 
shelter.  I  bear,  with  unrepining  patience,  all  manner 
of  ill  usage;  I  am  trampled  upon,  I  am  torn,  and 
wounded  with  the  most  cutting  strokes ;  I  am  pillaged 
of  the  treasures  hidden  in  my  most  secret  chambers; 
notwithstanding  which  I  am  always  ready  to  return 
good  for  evil,  and  am  continually  subservient  to  the 
pleasure  or  advantage  of  others ;  yet,  so  ungrateful  is 
the  world,  that,  because  I  do  not  possess  all  the  airi- 
ness and  activity  of  my  sisters,  I  am  stigmatized  as 
dull  and  heavy.  Every  sordid,  miserly  fellow  is  called, 
by  way  of  derision,  one  of  my  children ;  and  if  a  per- 
son, on  entering  a  room,  does  but  turn  his  eyes  upon 
me,  he  is  thought  stupid  and  mean,  and  not  fit  for  good 
company.  I  have  the  satisfaction,  however,  of  finding 
that  people  always  incline  towards  me  as  they  grow 
older;  and  that  those  who  seemed  proudly  to  disdain 
any  affinity  with  me  are  content  to  sink,  at  last,  into 
my  bosom.  You  will  probably  wish  to  have  some 
account  of  my  person.  I  am  not  a  regular  beauty ; 
some  of  my  features  are  rather  harsh  and  prominent, 
when  viewed  separately;  but  my  countenance  has  so 
much  variety  of  expression,  and  so  many  different  atti- 
tudes of  elegance,  that  those  who  study  my  face  with 
attention  find  out  continually  new  charms. 

Though  I  have  been  so  long  a  mother,  I  have  still  a 
surprising  air  of  youth  and  freshness,  which  is  assisted 

VOL.    II.  17  T 


386  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

by  all  the  advantages  of  well-chosen  ornament,  for  I 
dress  well,  and  according  to  the  season. 

This  is  what  I  have  chiefly  to  say  of  myself  and  my 
sisters.  To  a  person  of  your  sagacity,  it  will  be  unne- 
cessary for  me  to  sign  my  name.  Indeed,  one  who  be- 
comes acquainted  with  any  one  of  the'  family  cannot 
be  at  a  loss  to  discover  the  rest,  notwithstanding  the 
difference  in  our  features  and  characters. 


LETTER   OF  A  YOUNG   KING.  38' 


LETTER   OF  A  YOUNG  KING. 

MADAM,  —  Amidst  the  mutual  compliments  and 
kind  wishes  which  are  universally  circulated  at 
this  season,  I  hope  mine  will  not  be  the  least  accept- 
able ;  and  I  have  thought  proper  to  give  you  this  early 
assurance  of  my  kind  intentions  towards  you,  and  the 
benefits  I  have  in  store  for  you:  for,  though  I  am 
appointed  your  sovereign,  though  your  fates  and  for- 
tune, your  life  and  death,  are  at  my  disposal,  yet  I 
am  fully  sensible  that  I  was  created  for  my  subjects, 
not  my  subjects  for  me ;  and  that  the  end  of  my  very 
existence  is  to  diffuse  blessings  on  my  people. 

My  predecessor  departed  this  life  last  night  precisely 
at  twelve  o'clock.  He  died  of  a  universal  decay ; 
nature  was  exhausted  in  him,  and  there  was  not  vital 
heat  sufficient  to  carry  on  the  functions  of  life ;  his 
hair  was  fallen,  and  discovered  his  smooth,  white,  bald 
head ;  his  voice  was  hoarse  and  broken,  and  his  blood 
froze  in  his  veins :  in  short,  his  time  was  come.  And 
to  say  truth  he  will  not  be  much  regretted ;  for  of 
late  he  had  been  gloomy  and  vaporish,  and  the  sudden 
gusts  of  passion   he   had   long   been  subject  to  were 


388  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

worked  up  into  such  storms  it  was  impossible  to  live 
under  him  with  comfort. 

With  regard  to  myself,  I  am  sensible  the  joy  ex- 
pressed at  my  accession  is  sincere,  and  that  no  young 
monarch  lias  ever  been  welcomed  with  warmer  demon- 
strations of  affection.  Some  have  ardently  longed  for 
my  coming,  and  all  view  my  approach  with  pleasure 
and  cheerfulness ;  yet  such  is  the  uncertainty  of  pop- 
ular favor,  that  I  well  know  that  those  who  are  most 
eager  and  sanguine  in  expressing  their  joy  will  soonest 
be  tired  of  my  company.  You  yourself,  madam,  though 
I  know  that  at  present  you  regard  me  with  kindness, 
as  one  from  whom  you  expect  more  happiness  than  you 
have  yet  enjoyed,  will  probably  after  a  short  time  wish 
as  much  to  part  with  me,  and  transfer  the  same  fond 
hopes  and  wishes  to  my  successor.  But  though  your 
impatience  may  make  me  a  very  troublesome  compan- 
ion, it  will  not  in  the  least  hasten  my  departure ;  nor 
can  all  the  powers  of  earth  oblige  me  to  resign  a 
moment  before  my  time.  In  order,  therefore,  that  you 
may  form  proper  expectations  concerning  me,  I  shall 
give  you  a  little  sketch  of  my  temper  and  manners, 
and  I  will  acknowledge  that  my  aspect  at  present  is 
somewhat  stern  and  rough  ;  but  there  is  a  latent  warmth 
in  my  temper  which  you  will  perceive  as  we  grow 
better  acquainted,  and  I  shall  every  day  put  on  a 
milder  and  more  smiling  look :  indeed,  I  have  so  much 


LETTER   OF  A   YOUNG   KING.  389 

fire,  that  I  may  chance  sometimes  to  make  the  house 
too  hot  for  you ;  but  in  recompense  for  this  inequality 
of  temper  I  am  kind  and  bountiful  as  a  giving  God :  I 
come  full-handed,  and  my  very  business  is  to  dispense 
blessings  ;  —  blessings  of  the  basket  and  the  store ; 
blessings  of  the  field  and  of  the  vineyard;  blessings 
for  time  and  eternity.  There  is  not  an  inhabitant  of 
the  globe  who  will  not  experience  my  bounty;  yet 
such  is  the  ingratitude  of  mankind,  that  there  is 
scarcely  one  whom  I  shall  not  leave  in  some  degree 
discontented. 

Whimsical  and  various  are  the  petitions  which  are 
daily  put  up  to  me  from  all  parts ;  and  very  few  of  the 
petitioners  will  be  satisfied;  because  they  reject  and 
despise  the  gifts  I  offer  them  with  open  hand,  and  set 
their  minds  on  others  which  certainly  will  not  fall  to 
their  share.  Celia  has  begged  me  on  her  knees  to  find 
her  a  lover :  I  shall  do  what  I  can ;  I  shall  bring  her 
the  most  magnificent  shawl  that  has  appeared  in 
Europe.  For  Dorinda,  who  has  made  the  same  petition, 
I  have  two  gifts,  —  wisdom  and  gray  hairs ;  the  former 
I  know  she  will  reject,  nor  can  I  force  her  to  wear  it ; 
but  the  gray  hairs  I  shall  leave  on  her  toilette,  whether 
she  will  or  no.  The  curate  of  Sopron  expects  I  shall 
bring  him  a  living :  I  shall  present  him  with  twins  as 
round  and  rosy  as  an  apple.  Nor  can  I  listen  to  the 
entreaty  of  Dorimant,  whose  good  father  being  a  little 


390  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

asthmatic,  lie  has  desired  me  to  push  him  into  his 
grave  as  we  walk  up  May  hill  together:  but  I  shall 
many  him  to  a  handsome,  lively  girl,  who  will  make  a 
very  pretty  step-mother  to  the  young  gentleman.  It  is 
in  vain  for  poor  Sylvia  to  weary  me  as  she  does  with 
prayers  to  restore  to  her  her  faithless  lover :  but  I  shall 
give  her  the  choice  of  two,  to  replace  him.  Codrus 
has  asked  me  if  he  may  bespeak  a  suit  of  black :  but 
I  can  tell  him  his  little  wife  wrill  outlive  me  and  him 
too :  I  have  offered  the  old  man  a  double  portion  of 
patience,  which  he  has  thrown  away  very  pettishly. 
Strephon  has  entreated  me  to  take  him  to  Scotland 
with  his  mistress :  I  shall  do  it ;  and  he  will  hate  my 
very  name  all  his  life  after. 

The  wishes  of  some  are  very  moderate ;  Fanny  begs 
two  inches  of  height,  and  Cloe  that  I  would  take  away 
her  awkward  plumpness ;  Cams  a  new  equipage,  and 
Philida  a  new  ball-dress.  A  mother  brought  me  her 
son  the  other  day,  made  me  many  compliments,  and 
desired  me  to  teach  him  everything ;  at  the  same  time 
begging  the  youth  to  throw  away  his  marbles,  which 
he  had  often  promised  to  part  with  as  soon  as  he  saw 
me  :  but  the  boy  held  them  fast,  and  I  shall  teach  him 
nothing  but  to  play  at  taw.  Many  ladies  have  come 
to  me  with  their  daughters  in  their  hands,  telling  me 
they  hope  their  girls,  under  me,  will  learn  prudence : 
but  the  young  ladies  have  as  constantly  desired  me  to 


LETTER   OF   A   YOUNG  KING.  391 

teach  prudence  to  their  grandmothers,  whom  it  would 
better  become,  and  to  bring  them  new  dances  and  new 
fashions.  In  short,  I  have  scarcely  seen  any  one  with 
whom  I  am  likely  to  agree,  but  a  stout  old  farmer  who 
rents  a  small  cottage  on  the  green.  He  was  leaning 
on  his  spade  when  I  approached  him.  As  his  neighbor 
told  him  I  was  coming,  he  welcomed  me  with  a  cheer- 
ful countenance ;  but  at  the  same  time  bluntly  told  me 
he  had  not  expected  me  so  soon,  being  too  busy  to  pay 
much  attention  to  my  approach.  I  asked  him  if  I 
could  do  anything  for  him.  He  said  he  did  not  believe 
me  better  or  worse  than  those  who  had  preceded  me, 
and  therefore  should  not  expect  much  from  me ;  that 
he  was  happy  before  he  saw  me,  and  should  be  very 
well  contented  after  I  left  him :  he  was  glad  to  see  me, 
however,  and  only  begged  I  would  not  take  his  wife 
from  him,  a  thin,  withered  old  woman  who  was  eating  a 
mess  of  milk  at  the  door.  "  And  I  shall  be  glad  too,"  said 
he,  "if  you  will  fill  my  cellar  with  potatoes."  As  he 
applied  himself  to' his  spade  while  he  said  these  words, 
I  shall  certainly  grant  his  request. 

I  shall  now.  tell  you,  that,  great  and  extensive  as  my 
power  is,  I  shall  possess  it  but  a  short  time.  However 
the  predictions  of  astrologers  are  now  laughed  at,  noth- 
ing is  more  certain  than  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 
A  scheme  of  my  nativity  has  been  cast  by  the  most 
eminent  astronomers,  who  have  found,  on  consulting 


392  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  stars  and  the  aspect  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  that 
Capricornus  will  be  fatal  to  me ;  I  know  that  all  the 
physicians  in  the  world  cannot  protract  my  life  beyond 
that  fatal  period.  I  do  not  tell  you  this  to  excite  your 
sensibility,  —  for  I  would  have  you  meet  me  without 
fondness  and  part  with  me  without  regret,  —  but  to 
quicken  you  to  lay  hold  on  those  advantages  I  am  able 
to  procure  you ;  for  it  will  be  your  own  fault  if  you  are 
not  both  wiser  and  better  for  my  company.  I  have 
likewise  another  request  to  make  to  you,  —  that  you 
will  write  my  epitaph :  I  may  make  you  happy,  but  it 
depends  on  you  to  make  me  famous.  If,  after  I  am 
departed,  you  can  say  my  reign  was  distinguished  by 
good  actions  and  wise  conversations,  and  that  I  have 
left  you  happier  than  I  found  you,  I  shall  not  have 
lived  in  vain.  My  sincere  wishes  are,  that  you  may 
long  outlive  me,  but  always  remember  me  with  pleas- 
ure.    I  am,  if  you  use  me  well, 

Your  friend  and  servant, 

The  Xew  Year. 


ON   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  393 


ON  THE   USES   OF   HISTOEY. 
LETTER   I. 

MY  DEAR  LYDIA,—  I  was  told  the  other  day 
that  you  have  not  forgotten  a  promise  of  mine 
to  correspond  with  you  upon  some  subjects  which 
might  be  worth  discussing,  and  relative  to  your  pur- 
suits. I  have  often  recollected  it  also  ;  and  as  prom- 
ises ought  not  only  to  be  recollected  but  fulfilled,  I 
will  without  further  preface  throw  together  some 
thoughts  on  History,  —  a  study  that  I  know  you  value 
as  it  deserves ;  and  I  trust  it  will  not  "be  disagreeable 
to  you,  if  you  should  find  some  observations  which 
your  own  mind  may  have  suggested,  or  which  you  may 
recollect  to  have  heard  from  me  in  some  of  those  hours 
which  we  spent  together  with  mutual  pleasure. 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  uses  of  history.  They  are 
no  doubt  many,  yet  do  not  apply  equally  to  all ;  but  it 
is  quite  sufficient  to  make  it  a  study  worth  our  pains 
and  time,  that  it  satisfies  the  desire  which  naturally  arises 
in  every  intelligent  mind  to  know  the  transactions  of 
the  country,  of  the  globe,  in  which  he  lives.  Facts,  as 
facts,  interest  our  curiosity  and  engage  our  attention. 

17* 


394  WORKS   OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Suppose  a  person  placed  in  a  part  of  the  country 
where  he  was  a  total  stranger ;  he  would  naturally  ask 
who  are  the  chief  people  of  the  place,  what  family 
they  are  of,  whether  any  of  their  ancestors  have  been 
famous,  and  for  what.  If  he  see  a  ruined  abbey,  he 
will  inquire  what  the  building  was  used  for ;  and  if  lie 
be  told  it  is  a  place  where  people  got  up  at  midnight 
to  sing  psalms,  and  scourged  themselves  in  the  day,  he 
will  ask  how  there  came  to  be  such  people,  or  why 
there  are  none  now.  If  he  observes  a  dilapidated  cas- 
tle which  appears  to  have  been  battered.by  violence,  he 
will  ask  in  what  quarrel  it  suffered,  and  why  they  built 
formerly  structures  so  different  from  any  we  see  now. 
If  any  part  of  the  inhabitants  should  speak  a  different 
language  from  the  rest,  or  have  some  singular  customs 
among  them,  he  would  suppose  they  came  originally 
from  some  remote  part  of  the  country;  and  would 
inform  himself,  if  he  could,  of  the  cause  of  their  pecu- 
liarities. 

If  he  were  of  a  curious  temper,  he  would  not  rest  till 
he  had  informed  himself  who  every  estate  in  the  parish 
belonged  to,  what  hands  they  had  gone  through,  how 
one  man  got  this  field  by  marrying  an  heiress,  and  the 
other  lost  that  meadow  by  a  ruinous  lawsuit.  As  a  man 
of  spirit  he  would  feel  delighted  on  hearing  the  relation 
of  the  opposition  made  by  an  honest  yeoman  to  an  over- 
bearing rich  man.  on  the  subject  of  an  accustomed  path- 


ON   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  395 

way  or  right  of  common.  If  lie  should  find  the  town  or 
village  divided  into  parties,  he  would  take  some  pains  to 
trace  the  original  cause  of  their  dissension,  and  to  find 
out,  if  possible,  who  had  the  right  on  his  side.  Cir- 
cumstances would  often  occur  to  excite  his  attention. 
If  he  saw  a  bridge,  he  would  ask  when  and  by  whom  it 
was  built.  If  in  digging  in  his  garden  he  should  find 
utensils  of  a  singular  form  and  construction,  or  a  pot  of 
money  with  a  stamp  and  legend  quite  different  from 
the  common  coin,  he  would  be  led  to  inquire  when 
they  were  in  use,  and  to  whom  they  had  belonged. 
His  curiosity  would  extend  itself  by  degrees.  If  a 
brook  ran  through  the  meadows,  he  would  be  pleased 
to  trace  it  till  it  swelled  into  a  river,  and  the  river  till 
it  lost  itself  in  the  sea.  He  would  be  asking  whose 
seat  he  saw  upon  the  edge  of  a  distant  forest,  and  what 
sort  of  country  lay  behind  th«  range  of  hills  that 
bounded  his  utmost  view.  If  an}^  strangers  came  to 
visit  or  reside  in  the  place  where  he  lived,  he  would  be 
questioning  them  about  the  country  they  came  from, 
their  connections  and  alliances,  and  the  remarkable 
transactions  that  had  taken  place  within  their  memory 
or  that  of  their  parents.  The  answers  to  these  questions 
would  insensibly  grow  up  into  History  ;  which,  as  you 
see,  does  not  originate  in  abstruse  speculation,  but 
grows  naturally  out  of  our  situation  and  relative  con- 
nections.     It  gratifies  a  curiosity  which  all  feel  in  some 


396  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

degree,  but  which  spreads  and  enlarges  itself  with  the 
cultivation  of  our  powers,  till  at  length  it  embraces  the 
whole  globe  which  we  inhabit.  To  know  is  as  natural 
to  the  mind  as  to  see  is  to  the  eye;  and  knowledge 
is  itself  an  ultimate  end.  But  though  this  may  be 
esteemed  an  ultimate  and  sufficient  end,  the  study  of 
history  is  important  to  various  purposes.  Few  pursuits 
tend  more  to  enlarge  the  mind.  It  gives  us,  and  it 
only  can  give  us,  an  extended  knowledge  of  human 
nature  ;  not  human  nature  as  it  exists  in  one  age  or 
climate  or  particular  spot  of  earth,  but  human  nature 
under  all  the  various  circumstances  by  which  it  can  be 
affected.  It  shows  us  what  is  radical  and  what  is 
adventitious.  It  shows  us  that  man  is  still  man,  in 
Turkey  and  in  Lapland,  as  a  vassal  in  Eussia,  or  a  mem- 
ber of  a  wandering  tribe  in  India,  in  ancient  Athens  or 
modern  Eome  ;  yet  that  his  character  is  susceptible  of 
violent  changes,  and  becomes  moulded  into  infinite 
diversities  by  the  influence  of  government,  climate,  civ- 
ilization, wealth,  and  poverty.  By  showing  us  how 
man  has  acted,  it  shows  us  to  a  certain  degree  how  he 
will  ever  act  in  given  circumstances  ;  and  general  rules 
and  maxims  are  drawn  from  it  for  the  service  of  the 
lawgiver  and  the  statesman. 

Here  I  must  observe,  however,  with  regard  to  events, 
that  a  knowledge  of  history  does  not  seem  to  give  us 
any  great  advantage   in  foreseeing  and  preparing  for 


ON  THE  USES   OF  HISTORY.  397 

them.  The  deepest  politician,  with  all  his  knowledge 
of  the  revolutions  of  past  ages,  could  probably  no  more 
have  predicted  the  course  and  termination  of  the  late 
French  revolution  than  a  common  man.  The  state  of 
our  own  national  debt  has  baffled  calculation,  —  the 
course  of  ages  has  presented  nothing  like  it.  Who 
could  have  pronounced  that  the  struggle  of  the  Ameri- 
cans would  be  successful,  that  of  the  Poles  unsuccess- 
ful ?  Human  characters,  indeed,  act  always  alike  ;  but 
events  depend  upon  circumstances  as  well  as  charac- 
ters, and  circumstances  are  infinitely  various  and 
changed  by  the  slightest  causes.  A  battle  won  or  lost 
may  decide  the  fate  of  an  empire  ;  but  a  battle  may  be 
won  or "  lost  by  a  shower  of  snow  being  blown  to  the 
east  or  the  west,  b}r  a  horse  (the  general's)  losing  his 
shoe,  by  a  bullet  or  an  arrow  taking  a  direction  a  tenth 
part  of  an  inch  one  way  or  the  other.  —  The  whole 
course  of  the  French  affairs  might  have  been  changed 
if  the  king  had  not  stopped  to  breakfast,  or  if  the  post- 
master of  Varennes  had  not  happened  to  know  him. 
These  are  particulars  which  no  man  can  foresee ;  and 
therefore  no  man  can  with  precision  foresee  events. 

The  rising  up  of  certain  characters  at  particular  peri- 
ods ranks  among  those  unforeseen  circumstances  that 
powerfully  influence  events.  Often  does  a  single  man, 
as  Epaminondas,  illustrate  his  country,  and  leave  a 
long  track  of  light  after  him  to  future  ages ;  and  who 


398  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

can  tell  how  much  even  America  owed  to  the  accident 
of  being  served  by  such  a  man  as  Washington  ?  There 
are  always  many  probable  events.  All  that  history 
enables  the  politician  to  do  is  to  predict  that  one  or 
other  of  them  will  take  place.  If  so  and  so,  it  will  be 
this ;  if  so  and  so,  it  will  be  that ;  but  which,  he  can- 
not tell.  There  are  always  combinations  of  circum- 
stances which  have  never  met  before  from  the  creation 
of  the  world,  and  which  mock  all  power  of  calculation. 
But  let  the  circumstances  be  known,  and  the  characters 
upon  the  stage,  and  history  will  tell  what  to  expect 
from  them.  It  will  tell  him  with  certainty,  for 
instance,  that  a  treaty  extorted  by  force  from  distress 
will  be  broken  when  opportunity  offers;  that  if  the 
church  and  the  monarch  are  united  they  will  oppress, 
if  at  variance  they  will  divide,  the  people ;  that  a  pow- 
erful nation  will  make  its  advantage  of  the  divisions  of 
a  weaker  which  applies  for  its  assistance. 

It  is  another  advantage  of  history  that  it  stores  the 
mind  with  facts  that  apply  to  most  subjects  which 
occur  in  conversation  among  enlightened  people ; 
whether  morals,  commerce,  languages,  polite  literature, 
be  the  object  of  discussion,  it  is  history  that  must  sup- 
ply her  large  storehouse  of  proofs  and  illustrations.  A 
man  or  a  woman  may  decline  without  blame  many 
subjects  of  literature ;  but  to  be  ignorant  of  history  is 
not  permitted  to  any  of  a  cultivated  mind.     It  may  be 


ON   THE   USES    OF    HISTORY.  399 

reckoned  among  its  advantages,  that  this  study  natu- 
rally increases  the  love  of  every  man  to  his  country. 
"We  can  only  love  what  we  know ;  it  is  by  becoming 
acquainted  with  the  long  line  of  patriots,  heroes,  and 
distinguished  men,  that  we  learn  to  love  the  country 
which  has  produced  them. 

But  I  must  conclude  this  letter,  already  perhaps  too 
long,  though  I  have  not  got  to  the  end  of  my  subject ; 
it  will  give  me  soon  another  opportunity  of  subscribing 

myself 

Your  ever  affectionate  friend. 


LETTER  II. 


I  LEFT  off,  my  dear  Lydia,  with  mentioning,  among 
the  advantages  of  an  acquaintance  with  history,  that  it 
fosters  the  sentiments  of  patriotism. 

What  is  a  man's  country  ?  To  the  unlettered  peas- 
ant, who  has  never  left  his  native  village,  that  village  is 
his  country,  and  consequently  all  of  it  he  can  love. 
The  man  who  mixes  in  the  world,  and  has  a  large 
acquaintance  with  the  characters  existing  along  with 
himself  upon  the  stage  of  it,  has  a  wider  range.  His 
idea  of  a  country  extends  to  its  civil  polity,  its  military 
triumphs,  the  eloquence  of  its  courts,  and  the  splendor 
of  its  capital.     All  the  great  and  good  characters  he  is 


400  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

acquainted  with  swell  his  idea  of  its  importance,  and 
endear  to  him  the  society  of  which  he  is  a  member ; 
but  how  wonderfully  does  this  idea  expand,  and  how 
majestic  a  form  does  it  put  on,  when  History  conducts 
our  retrospective  view  through  the  past  ages  !  How 
much  more  has  the  man  to  love,  how  much  to  interest 
him  in  his  country,  in  whom  her  image  is  identified 
with  the  virtues  of  an  Alfred,  with  the  exploits  of  the 
Henrys  and  Edwards,  with  the  fame  and  fortunes  of 
the  Sydneys  and  Hampdens,  the  Lockes  and  Miltons, 
who  have  illustrated  her  annals  !  Like  a  man  of  noble 
birth  who  walks  up  and  down  in  a  long  gallery  of  por- 
traits, and  is  able  to  say,  "  This  my  progenitor  was 
admiral  in  such  a  fight ;  that,  my  great-uncle,  was 
general  in  such  an  engagement ;  he  on  the  right  hand 
held  the  seals  in  such  a  reign ;  that  lady  in  so  singular 
a  costume  was  a  celebrated  beauty  two  hundred  years 
ago  ;  this  little  man  in  the  black  cap  and  peaked  beard 
was  one  of  the  luminaries  of  his  age,  and  suffered  for 
his  religion " ;  —  he  learns  to  value  himself  upon  his 
ancestry,  and  to  feel  interested  for  the  honor  and  pros- 
perity of  the  whole  line  of  descendants.  Could  a 
Swiss,  think  you,  be  so  good  a  patriot,  who  had  never 
heard  the  name  of  William  Tell  ?  or  the  Hollander 
who  should  be  unacquainted  with  the  glorious  strug- 
gle which  freed  his  nation  from  the  tyranny  of  the 
Duke  of  Alva  ? 


ON   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  401 

The  Englishman  conversant  in  history  has  been  long 
acquainted  with  his  country.  He  knew  her  in  the 
infancy  of  her  greatness ;  has  seen  her,  perhaps,  in  the 
wattled  huts  and  slender  canoes  in  which  Caesar  dis- 
covered her ;  he  has  watched  her  rising  fortunes,  has 
trembled  at  her  dangers,  rejoiced  at  her  deliverances, 
and  shared  with  honest  pride  triumphs  that  were  cele- 
brated ages  before  he  was  born ;  he  has  traced  her 
gradual  improvement  through  many  a  dark  and  turbu- 
lent period,  many  a  storm  of  civil  warfare,  to  the  fair 
reign  of  her  liberty  and  law,  to  the  fulness  of  her  pros- 
perity and  the  amplitude  of  her  fame. 

Or  should  our  patriot  have  his  lot  cast  in  some  age 
and  country  which  has  declined  from  this  high  station 
of  pre-eminence ;  should  he  observe  the  gathering 
glooms  of  superstition  and  ignorance  ready  to  close 
again  over  the  bright  horizon  ;  should  Liberty  lie  pros- 
trate at  the  feet  of  a  despot,  and  the  golden  stream  of 
commerce,  diverted  into  other  channels,  leave  nothing 
but  beggary  and  wretchedness  around  him,  —  even 
then,  in  these  ebbing  fortunes  of  his  country,  History, 
like  a  faithful  metre,  would  tell  him  how  high  the  tide 
had  once  risen ;  he  would  not  tread  unconsciously  the 
ground  where  the  Muses  and  the  Arts  had  once 
resided,  like  the  goat  that  stupidly  browses  upon  the 
fane  of  Minerva.  Even  the  name  of  his  country  will 
be  dear  and  venerable  to  him.     He  will  muse  over  her 


402  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

fallen  greatness,  sit  down  under  the  shade  of  her  never- 
dying  laurels,  build  his  little,  cottage  amidst  the  ruins 
of  her  towers  and  temples,  and  contemplate  with  ten- 
derness and  respect  the  decaying  age  of  his  once  illus- 
trious parent. 

But  if  an  acquaintance  with  history  thus  increases  a 
rational  love  of  our  country,  it  also  tends  to  check 
those  low,  illiberal,  vulgar  prejudices  which  adhere  to 
the  uninformed  of  every  nation.  Travelling  will  also 
cure  them:  but  to  travel  is  not  within  the  power  of 
every  one.  There  is  no  use,  but  a  great  deal  of  harm, 
in  fostering  a  contempt  for  other  nations ;  in  an  arro- 
gant assumption  of  superiority,  and  the  clownish  sneer 
of  ignorance  at  everything  in  laws,  government,  or 
manners,  which  is  not  fashioned  after  our  partial  ideas 
and  familiar  usages.  A  well-informed  person  will  not 
be  apt  to  exclaim  at  every  event  out  of  the  common 
way,  that  nothing  like  it  has  ever  happened  since  the 
creation  of  the  world,  that  such  atrocities  are  totally 
unheard  of  in  any  age  or  nation ;  —  sentiments  we  have 
all  of  us  so  often  heard  of  late  on  the  subject  of  the 
French  revolution :  when  in  fact  we  can  scarcely  open 
a  page  of  their  history  without  being  struck  with  simi- 
lar and  equal  enormities.  Indeed,  party  spirit  is  very 
much  cooled  and  checked  by  an  acquaintance  with  the 
events  of  past  times. 

When  we  see  the  mixed  and  imperfect  virtue  of  the 


ON  THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  403 

most  distinguished  characters;  the  variety  of  motives, 
some  pure  and  some  impure,  which  influence  political 
conduct ;  the  partial  success  of  the  wisest  schemes,  and 
the  frequent  failure  of  the  fairest  hopes;  —  we  shall 
find  it  more  difficult  to  choose  a  side,  and  to  keep  up 
an  interest  towards  it  in  our  minds,  than  to  restrain 
our  feelings  and  language  within  the  bounds  of  good 
sense  and  moderation.  This,  by  the  way,  makes  it  par- 
ticularly proper  that  ladies  who  interest  themselves  in 
the  events  of  public  life  should  have  their  minds  culti- 
vated by  an  acquaintance  with  history,  without  which 
they  are  apt  to  let  the  whole  warmth  of  their  natures 
flow  out,  upon  party  matters,  in  an  ardor  more  honest 
than  wise,  more  zealous  than  candid. 

With  regard  to  the  moral  uses  of  history,  what  has 
just  been  mentioned  may  stand  for  one.  It  serves  also 
by  exercise  to  strengthen  the  moral  feelings.  The 
traits  of  generosity,  heroism,  disinterestedness,  magna- 
nimity, are  scattered  over  it  like  sparkling  gems,  and 
arrest  the  attention  of  the.  most  common  reader.  It  is 
wonderfully  interesting  to  follow  the  revolutions  of  a 
great  state,  particularly  when  they  lead  to  the  success- 
ful termination  of  some  glorious  contest.  Is  it  true  ?  — 
a  child  asks,  when  you  tell  him  a  wonderful  story  that 
strikes  his  imagination.  The  writer  of  fiction  has  the 
unlimited  command  of  events  and  of  characters;  yet 
that  single  circumstance  of  truth,  that  the  events  re- 


404  WORKS    OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

lated  really  came  to  pa^s,  that  the  heroes  brought  upon 
the  stage  really  existed,  counterbalances,  with  re- 
spect to  interest,  all  the  privileges  of  the  former,  and  in 
a  mind  a  little  accustomed  to  exertion  will  throw  the 
advantage  on  the  side  of  the  historian. 

The  more  History  approaches  to  Biography  the  more 
interest  it  excites.  Where  the  materials  are  meagre 
and  scanty,  the  antiquarian  and  the  chronologer  may 
dwell  upon  the  page ;  but  it  will  seldom  excite  the 
glow  of  admiration  or  draw  the  delicious  tear  of  sensi- 
bility. I  must  acknowledge,  however,  in  order  to  be 
candid,  that  the  emotions  excited  by  the  actions  of  our 
species  are  not  always  of  so  pleasing  or  so  edifying  a 
nature.  The  miseries  and  the  vices  of  man  form  a 
large  part  of  the  picture  of  human  society :  the  pure 
mind  is  disgusted  by  depravity,  the  existence  of  which 
it  could  not  have  imagined  to  itself;  and  the  feeling 
heart  is  cruelly  lacerated  by  the  sad  repetition  of 
wrongs  and  oppression,  chains  and  slaughter,  sack  and 
massacre,  which  assail  it  in  every  page  :  —  till  the  mind 
has  gained  some  strength,  so  frightful  a  picture  should 
hardly  be  presented  to  it.  Chosen  periods  of  history 
may  be  selected  for  youth,  as  the  society  of  chosen 
characters  precedes  in  well-regulated  education  a  more 
indiscriminate  acquaintance  with  the  world.  In  favor 
of  a  more  extended  view,  I  can  only  say  that  truth  is 
truth,  —  man  must  be  shown  as  the  being  he  really  is, 


OX   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  405 

or  no  real  knowledge  is  gained.  If  a  young  person 
were  to  read  only  the  Beauties  of  History,  or,  according 
to  Madame  Genlis's  scheme,  stories  and  characters  in 
which  all  that  was  vicious  should  be  left  out,  he  might 
as  well,  for  any  real  acquaintance  with  life  he  would 
gain,  have  been  reading  all  the  while  Sir  Charles  Gran- 
dison  or  the  Princess  of  Cleves. 

One  consoling  idea  will  present  itself  with  no  small 
degree  of  probability  on  comparing  the  annals  of  past 
and  present  times,  —  that  of  a  tendency  to  ameliora- 
tion ;  at  least  it  is  evidently  found  in  those  countries 
with  which  we  are  most  connected.  But  the  only 
balm  that  can  be  poured  with  full  effect  into  the  feel- 
ing mind,  which  bleeds  for  the  folly  and  wickedness 
of  man,  is  the  belief  that  all  events  are  directed  and 
controlled  by  supreme  wisdom  and  goodness.  Without 
this  persuasion,  the  world  becomes  a  desert,  and  its 
devastators  the  wolves  and  tigers  that  prowl  over  it. 

It  is  needless  to  insist  on  the  uses  of  history  to  those 
whose  situation  in  life  gives  them  room  to  expect  that 
their  actions  may  one  day  become  the  objects  of  it. 
Besides  the  immediate  necessity  to  them  of  the  knowl- 
edge it  supplies,  it  affords  the  strongest  motives  for 
their  conduct  of  hope  and  fear.  The  solemn  award, 
the  incorruptible  tribunal,  and  the  severe,  soul-searching 
inquisition  of  Posterity,  is  calculated  to  strike  an  awe 
into  their  souls.     They  cannot  take  refuge  in  oblivion ; 


406  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

it  is  not  permitted  them  to  die :  —  they  may  be  the 
objects  of  gratitude  or  detestation  as  long  as  the  world 
stands.  They  may  natter  themselves  that  they  have 
silenced  the  voice  of  truth ;  they  may  forbid  news- 
papers and  pamphlets  aud  conversation;  —  an  unseen 
hand  is  all  the  while  tracing  out  their  history,  and 
often  their  minutest  actions,  in  indelible  characters ; 
and  it  will  soon  be  held  up  for  the  judgment  of  the 
world  at  large. 

Lastly,  this  permanency  of  human  characters  tends 
to  cherish  in  the  mind  the  hope  and  belief  of  an  exist- 
ence after  death.  If  we  had  no  notices  from  the  page 
of  history  of  those  races  of  men  that  have  lived  before 
us,  they  would  seem  to  be  completely  swept  away ; 
and  we  should  no  more  think  of  inquiring  what  human 
beings  filled  our  places  upon  the  earth  a  thousand  har- 
vests ago,  than  we  should  think  about  the  generations 
of  cattle  which  at  that  time  grazed  the  marshes  of  the 
Tiber,  or  the  venerable  ancestors  of  the  goats  that  are 
browsing  upon  Mount  Hymettus ;  —  no  vestige  would 
remain  of  one  any  more  than  of  the  other,  and  we 
might  more  pardonably  fall  into  the  opinion  that  they 
both  had  shared  a  similar  fate.  But  when  we  see  illus- 
trious characters  continuing  to  live  on  in  the  eye  of 
posterity,  their  memories  still  fresh,  and  their  noble 
actions  shining  with  all  the  vivid  coloring  of  truth  and 
reality  ages  after  the  very  dust  of  their  tombs  is  scat- 


OX   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  407 

tered,  high  conceptions  kindle  within  us ;  and,  feeling 
one  immortality,  we  are  led  to  hope  for  another.  We 
find  it  hard  to  persuade  ourselves  that  the  man  who, 
like  Antoninus  or  Socrates,  fills  the  world  with  the 
sweet  perfume  of  his  virtue,  the  martyr  or  the  patriot 
to  whom  posterity  is  doing  the  justice  which  was 
denied  him  by  his  contemporaries,  should  all  the  while 
himself  be  blotted  out  of  existence,  that  he  should  be 
benefiting  mankind  and  doing  good  so  long  after  he  is 
capable  of  receiving  any,  that  we  should  be  so  well 
acquainted  with  him,  and  that  he  should  never  know 
anything  of  us.  That  one  who  is  an  active  agent  in 
the  world,  instructing,  informing  it,  inspiring  friend- 
ship, making  disciples,  should  be  nothing,  —  this  does 
not  seem  probable;  the  records  of  time  suggest  to  us 
eternity.  —  Farewell. 


LETTER  III. 


My  dear  Lydia,  —  We  have  considered  the  uses 
of  History  ,  I  would  now  direct  your  attention  to  those 
collateral  branches  of  science  which  are  necessary  for 
the  profitable  understanding  of  it.  It  is  impossible  to 
understand  one  thing  well  without  understanding  to  a 
certain  degree  many  other  things ;  there  is  a  mutual 
dependence  between  all  parts  of  knowledge.     This  is 


408  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  reason  that  a  child  never  fully  comprehends  what 
lie  is  taught :  he  receives  an  idea,  but  not  the  full  idea, 
perhaps  not  the  principal,  of  what  you  want  to  teach 
him.  But  as  his  mind  opens,  this  idea  enlarges  and 
receives  accessory  ideas,  till  slowly  and  by  degrees  he 
is  master  of  the  whole.  This  is  particularly  the  case  in 
History.  You  may  recollect,  probably,  that  the  mere 
adventure  was  all  you  entered  into,  in  those  portions  of 
it  which  were  presented  to  you  at  a  very  early  age. 
You  could  understand  nothing  of  the  springs  of  action, 
nothing  of  the  connection  of  events  with  the  intrigues 
of  cabinets,  with  religion,  with  commerce ;  nothing  of 
the  state  of  the  world  at  different  periods  of  society 
and  improvement ;  and  as  little  could  you  grasp  the 
measured  distances  of  time  and  space  which  are  set 
between  them.  This  you  could  not  do,  not  because  the 
history  was  not  related  with  clearness,  but  because  you 
were  destitute  of  other  knowledge. 

The  first  studies  which  present  themselves  as  ac- 
cessories in  this  light  are  Geography  and  Chronology, 
which  have  been  called  the  two  eyes  of  History. 
"When  was  it  done  ?  where  was  it  done  ?  are  the  two 
first  questions  you  would  ask  concerning  any  fact  that 
was  related  to  you.  Without  these  two  particulars 
there  can  be  no  precision  or  clearness. 

Geography  is  best  learned  along  with  history ;  for  if 
the  first  explains  history,  the  latter  gives  interest  to 


ON    THE    USES    OF   HISTORY.  409 

geography,  which  without  it  is  but  a  dry  list  of  names. 
For  this  reason  if  a  young  person  begin  with  ancient 
history,  I  should  think  it  advisable,  after  a  slight 
general  acquaintance  with  the  globe,  to  confine  his 
geography  to  the  period  and  country  of  which  he  is 
reading ;  and  it  would  be  a  desirable  thing  to  have 
maps  adapted  to  each  remarkable  period  in  the  great 
empires  of  the  world.  These  should  not  contain  any 
towns  or  be  divided  into  any  provinces  which  were  not 
known  at  that  period.  A  map  of  Egypt,  for  instance, 
calculated  for  its  ancient  monarchy,  should  have  Mem- 
phis marked  on  it,  but  not  Alexandria,  because  the  two 
capitals  did  not  exist  together.  A  map-  of  Judea  for 
the  time  of  Solomon,  or  any  period  of  its  monarchy, 
should  not  exhibit  the  name  of  Samaria,  nor  the  vil- 
lages of  Bethany  and  Nazareth:  but  each  countiy 
should  have  the  towns  and  divisions,  as  far  as  they 
are  known,  calculated  for  the  period  the  map  was 
meant  to  illustrate.  Thus  geography,  civil  geography, 
would  be  seen  to  grow  out  of  history ;  and  the  mere 
view  of  the  map  would  suggest  the  political  state  of 
the  world  at  any  period. 

It  would  be  a  pleasing  speculation  to  see  how  the 
arbitrary  divisions  of  kingdoms  and  provinces  vary, 
and  become  obsolete,  and  large  towns  flourish  and  fall 
again  into  ruins ;  while  the  great  natural  features,  the 
mountains,   rivers,   and   seas,    remain    unchanged,   by 

VOL.    II.  18 


410  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

whatever  names  we  please  to  call  them,  whatever 
empire  encloses  them  within  its  temporary  boundaries. 
"We  have,  it  is  true,  ancient  and  modern  maps;  but 
the  one  set  includes  every  period  from  the  Flood  to  the 
provinciating  the  Roman  Empire  under  Trajan,  and 
the  other  takes  in  all  the  rest.  About  half  a  dozen 
sets  for  the  ancient  states  and  empires,  and  as  many 
for  the  modern,  would  be  sufficient  to  exhibit  the  most 
important  changes,  and  would  be  as  many  as  we  should 
be  able  to  give  with  any  clearness.  The  young  student 
should  make  it  an  invariable  rule  never  to  read  history 
without  a  map  before  him ;  to  which  should  be  added 
plans  of  towns,  harbors,  etc.  These  should  be  con- 
veniently placed  under  the  eye,  separate  if  possible 
from  the  book  he  is  reading,  that  by  frequent  glancing 
upon  them  the  image  of  the  country  may  be  indelibly 
impressed  on  his  imagination. 

Besides  the  necessity  of  maps  for  understanding 
history,  the  memory  is  wonderfully  assisted  by  the 
local  association  which  they  supply.  The  battles  of 
Issus  and  the  Granicus  will  not  be  confounded  by  those 
who  have  taken  the  pains  to  trace  the  rivers  on  whose 
banks  they  were  fought :  the  exploits  of  Hannibal  are 
connected  with  a  view  of  the  Alps,  and  the  idea  of 
Leonidas  is  inseparable  from  the  straits  of  Thermopylae. 
The  greater  accuracy  of  maps,  and  still  more  the  facil- 
ity, from  the  arts  of  printing  and  engraving,  of  procur- 


OX   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  411 

ing  them,  is  an  advantage  the  moderns  have  over  the 
ancients.  They  have  been  perfected  by  slow  degrees. 
The  Egyptians  and  Chaldeans  studied  the  science  of 
mensuration ;  and  the  first  map  —  rude  enough  no 
doubt  —  is  said  to  have  been  made  by  order  of  Sesos- 
tris  when  he  became  master  of  Egypt.  Commerce 
and  war  have  been  the  two  parents  of  this  science. 
Pharaoh  Necho  ordered  the  Phoenicians  whom  he  sent 
round  Africa  to  make  a  survey  of  the  coast.  Tins 
they  finished  in  three  years.  Darius  caused  the  Ethi- 
opic  Sea  and  the  mouth  of  the  Indus  to  be  surveyed. 
That  maps  were  known  in  Greece  you  no  doubt  recol- 
lect from  the  pretty  story  of  Socrates  and  Alcibiades. 
Anaximander,  a  disciple  of  Thales,  is  said  to  have 
made  the  first  sphere,  and  first  delineated  what  was 
then  known  of  the  countries  of  the  earth.  He  flour- 
ished 547  years  before  Christ.  Herodotus  mentions 
a  map  of  brass  or  copper  which  was  presented  by 
Aristagoras,  tyrant  of  Miletus,  to  Cleomenes,  king  of 
Sparta,  in  which  he  had  described  the  known  world 
with  its  seas  and  rivers.  Alexander  the  Great  in  his 
expedition  into  Asia  took  two  geographers  with  him ; 
and  from  their  itineraries  many  things  have  been 
copied  by  succeeding  writers. 

From  Greece  the  science  of  geography  passed  to 
Eome.  The  enlightened  policy  of  the  Eomans  cul- 
tivated  it   as   a   powerful    means    of   extending    and 


412  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

securing  their  dominion.  One  of  the  first  things  they 
did  was  to  make  roads,  for  which  it  was  necessary  to 
have  the  country  measured.  They  had  a  custom  when 
they  had  conquered  a  country  to  have  a  painted  map 
of  it  always  carried  aloft  in  their  triumphs.  The  great 
historian  Polybius  reconnoitered  under  a  commission 
from  Scipio  Emilianus  the  coasts  of  Africa,  Spain,  and 
France,  and  measured  the  distances  of  Hannibal's 
march  over  the  Alps  and  Pyrenees.  Julius  Caesar 
employed  men  of  science  to  survey  and  measure  the 
globe;  and  his  own  Commentaries  show  his  attention 
to  this  part  of  knowledge.  Strabo,  a  great  geographer 
whose  works  are  extant,  flourished  under  Augustus  • 
Pomponius  Mela  in  the  first  century. 

Many  of  the  Roman  itineraries  which  are  still  ex- 
tant show  the  systematic  care  which  they  bestow  on  a 
science  so  necessary  for  the  orderly  distribution  and 
government  of  their  large  dominions.  But  still  it  was 
late  before  geography  was  settled  upon  its  true  basis, — 
astronomical  observations.  The  greater  part  of  the 
early  maps  were  laid  down  in  a  very  loose,  inaccurate 
manner;  and  where  particular  parts  were  done  with 
the  greatest  care,  yet  if  the  longitude  and  latitude  were 
wanting,  their  relative  situation  to  the  rest  of  the  earth 
could  not  be  known.  Some  attempts  had  indeed  been 
made  by  Hipparchus  and  Possidonius,  Greek  philos- 
ophers, to  settle  the  parallels  of  latitude  by  the  length 


ON   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  413 

of  the  days ;  but  the  foundation  they  had  laid  was 
neglected  till  the  time  of  Ptolemy,  who  nourished  at 
Alexandria  about  150  years  after  Christ,  under  Adrian 
and  Antoninus  Pius.  This  is  he  from  whom  the 
Ptolemaic  system  took  its  name.  He  diligently  com- 
pared and  revised  the  ancient  maps  and  charts,  cor- 
recting their  errors  and  supplying  their  defects  by 
the  reports  of  travellers  and  navigators,  the  measured 
or  reputed  distances  of  maps  and  itineraries,  and 
astronomical  calculations,  all  digested  together ;  he 
reduced  geography  to  a  regular  system,  and  laid  down 
the  situation  of  places  according  to  minutes  and  de- 
grees of  longitude  and  latitude  as  we  now  have  them. 
His  maps  were  in  general  use  till  the  last  three  or  four 
centuries,  in  which  time  the  progress  of  the  moderns 
in  the  knowledge  of  the  globe  we  inhabit  has  thrown 
at  a  great  distance  all  the  ancient  geographers. 

We  are  now,  some  few  breaks  and  chasms  excepted, 
pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  outline  of  the  globe, 
and  with  those  parts  of  it  with  which  we  are  connected 
by  our  commercial  or  political  relations ;  but  we  are 
still  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  interior  of  Africa,  and 
imperfectly  acquainted  with  that  of  South  America 
and  the  western  part  of  North  America.  AYe  know 
little  of  Thibet  and  the  central  parts  of  Asia,  and  have 
as  yet  only  touched  upon  the  great  continent  of  New 
Holland. 


414  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

The  best  ancient  maps  are  those  of  D'Anville.  It 
has  required  great  learning  and  proportionate  skill  to 
bring  together  the  scattered  notices  which  are  found 
in  various  authors,  and  to  fix  the  position  of  places 
which  have  been  long  ago  destroyed;  very  often  the 
geographer  has  no  other  guide  than  the  relation  of  the 
historian  that  such  a  place  is  within  six  or  eight  days' 
journey  from  another  place.  In  some  instances  the 
maps  of  Ptolemy  are  lately  come  into  repute  again,  — 
as  in  his  delineation  of  the  course  of  the  Niger,  which 
is  thought  to  be  favored  by  modern  discoveries.  Major 
Eennel  has  done  much  to  improve  the  geography  of 
India. 

There  are  many  valuable  maps  scattered  in  voyages 
and  travels,  and  many  of  the  atlases  contain  a  collec- 
tion sufficient  for  all  common  purposes;  but  a  complete 
collection  of  the  best  maps  and  charts,  with  plans  of 
harbors,  towns,  etc.,  becomes  an  object  of  even  princely 
expense.  The  French  took  the  lead  in  this,  as  in  some 
other  branches  of  science.  The  late  Empress  of  Russia 
caused  a  geographical  survey  to  be  taken  of  her  domin- 
ions, which  has  much  improved  our  knowledge  of  the 
northeastern  regions  of  Europe  and  Asia.  We  have 
now,  however,  both  single  maps  and  atlases  which  yield 
to  none  in  accuracy  or  elegance. 

Yours  affectionately. 


ON  THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  415 


LETTER    IV. 


Dear  Lydia, —  Geography  addresses  itself  to  the 
eye,  and  is  easily  comprehended ;  to  give  a  clear  idea 
of  Chronology  is  somewhat  more  difficult.  It  is  easy 
to  define  it  by  saying  it  gives  an  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, When  was  it  done  ?  but  the  meaning  of  the  when 
is  not  quite  so  obvious.  A  date  is  a  very  artificial 
thing,  and  the  world  had  existed  for  a  long  course 
of  centuries  before  men  were  aware  of  its  use  and 
necessity.  When  is  a  relative  term ;  the  most  natural 
application  of  it  is,  How  long  ago,  reckoning  backwards 
from  the  present  moment  ?  Thus  if  you  were  to  ask 
an  Indian  when  such  an  event  happened,  he  would 
probably  say,  So  many  harvests  ago,  when  I  could  but 
just  reach  the  boughs  of  yonder  tree  ;  in  the  time  of 
my  father,  grandfather,  great-grandfather ;  still  making 
the  time  then  present  to  him  the  date  from  which  he 
sets  out.  Even  where  a  different  method  is  well  un- 
derstood, we  use  in  more  familiar  life  this  natural  kind 
of  chronology,  —  The  year  before  I  was  married, — 
w7hen  Henry,  who  is  now  five  years  old,  was  born,  — 
the  winter  of  the  hard  frost.  These  are  the  epochs 
which  mark  the  annals  of  domestic  life  more  readily 
and  with  greater  clearness,  so  far  as  the  real  idea  of 
time  is  concerned,  than  the  year  of  our  Lord,  as  long 


416  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

as  these  are  all  within  the  circle  of  our  personal  rec- 
ollection. But  when  events  are  recorded,  the  relater 
may  be  forgotten,  and  the  when  again  occurs :  "  "When 
did  the  historian  live  ?  I  understand  the  relative 
chronology  of  his  narration ;  I  know  how  the  events 
of  it  follow  one  another ;  but  what  is  their  relation  to 
general  chronology,  to  time  as  it  relates  to  me  and  to 
other  events  ? " 

To  know  the  transactions  of  a  particular  reign  —  that 
of  Cyrus,  for  instance  —  in  the  regular  order  in  which 
they  happened  in  that  reign,  but  not  to  know  where 
to  place  them  with  respect  to  the  history  of  other  times 
and  nations,  is  as  if  we  had  a  very  accurate  map  of  a 
small  island  existing  somewhere  in  the  boundless  ocean, 
and  could  lay  down  all  the  bearings  and  distances  of 
its  several  towns  and  villages,  but  for  want  of  its  longi- 
tude and  latitude  were  ignoraut  of  the  relative  position 
of  the  island  itself.  Chronology  supplies  this  longitude 
and  latitude,  and  fixes  every  event  to  its  precise  point 
in  the  chart  of  universal  time.  It  supplies  a  common 
measure  by  which  I  may  compare  the  relater  of  an 
event  with  myself,  and  his  now  or  ten  years  ago  with 
the  present  now  or  ten  years,  reckoning  from  the  time 
in  which  I  live. 

In  order  to  find  such  a  common  measure,  men  have 
been  led  by  degrees  to  fix  upon  some  one  known  event, 
and  to  make  that  the   centre  from  which,  by  regular 


ON   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  417 

distances,  the  different  periods  of  time  are  reckoned, 
instead  of  making  the  present  time,  which  is  always 
varying,  and  every  man's  own  existence,  the  centre. 

The  first  approach  to  such  a  mode  of  computing  time 
is  to  date  by  the  reigns  of  kings ;  which,  being  public 
objects  of  great  notoriety,  seem  to  offer  themselves 
with  great  advantage  for  such  a  purpose.  The  Scrip- 
ture history,  which  is  the  earliest  of  histories,  has  no 
other  than  this  kind  of  successive  dates :  *  Now  it 
came  to  pass  in  the  fifth  year  of  the  king  Hezekiah  "  ; 
"And  the  time  that  Solomon  reigned  in  Jerusalem 
over  all  Israel  was  forty  years  ;  and  Solomon  slept 
with  his  fathers,  and  Behoboam  his  son  reigned  in  his 
stead."  From  this  method  a  regular  chronology  might 
certainly  be  deduced  if  we  had  the  whole  unbroken 
series ;  but  unfortunately  there  are  many  gaps  and 
chasms  in  history,  and  you  easily  see  that  if  any  links 
of  the  chain  are  wanting,  the  whole  computation  is 
rendered  imperfect.  Besides,  it  requires  a  tedious  cal- 
culation to  bring  it  into  comparison  with  other  histo- 
ries and  events.  To  say  that  an  event  happened  in  the 
tenth  year  of  the  reign  of  King  Solomon  gives  you 
only  an  idea  of  the  time  relative  to  the  histories  of  that 
king,  but  leaves  you  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  its  relation 
with  the  time  you  live  in,  or  with  the  events  of  the 
Eoman  history. 

We  want,  therefore,  an  universal  date,  like  a  lofty 

18*  AA 


418  "WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

obelisk  seen  by  all  the  country  round,  from  and  to 
which  every  distance  should  be  measured.  The  most 
obvious  that  offers  itself  for  this  purpose  is  the  creation 
of  the  world,  an  event  equally  interesting  to  all ;  to  us 
the  beginning  of  time,  and  from  which,  therefore,  time 
would  flow  regularly  down  in  an  unbroken  stream  from 
the  earliest  to  the  latest  generations  of  the  human  race. 
This  would  probably,  therefore,  have  been  made  use  of, 
if  the-  date  of  the  creation  itself  could  be  ascertained 
with  any  exactness ;  but  as  chronologers  differ  by  more 
than  a  thousand  years  as  to  the  time  of  that  event,  it  is 
necessary  previously  to  mention  what  system  is  made 
use  of,  which  renders  this  era  obscure  and  incon- 
venient. It  has  therefore  been  found  more  convenient, 
in  fact,  to  take  some  known  event  within  the  limit  of 
well-authenticated  history,  and  to  reckon  from  that 
fixed  point  backwards  and  -forwards.  As  we  cannot 
find  the  head  of  the  river,  and  know  not  its  termina- 
tion, we  must  raise  a  pillar  upon  its  banks  and  measure 
our  distances  from  that,  both  up  and  down  the  stream. 
This  event  ought  to  be  important,  conspicuous,  and  as 
interesting  as  possible,  that  it  may  be  generally 
received ;  for  it  would  spare  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in 
computation,  if  all  the  world  would  make  use  of  the 
same  date.  This,  however,  has  never  been  the  case, 
chance  and  national  vanity  having  had  their  full  share 
in  settling  them. 


ON   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  419 

The  Greeks  reckoned  by  olympiads,  but. not  till  more 
than  sixty  years  after  the  death  of  Alexander  the 
Great.  The  Olympic  games  were  the  most  brilliant 
assembly  in  Greece.  The  Greeks  were  very  fond  of 
them;  they  began  776  years  before  Christ,  and  each 
olympiad  includes  four  years.  Some  of  the  earlier 
Greek  historians  digested  their  histories  by  ages,  or  by 
the  succession  of  the  priestesses  of  Juno  at  Argos ;  oth- 
ers by  the  archons  of  Athens,  or  the  kings  of  Lacedse- 
mon.  Thucydides  uses  simply  the  beginning  of  the 
Peloponnesian  war,  the  subject  of  his  history ;  for, 
writing  to  his  contemporaries,  it  seems  not  to  have 
occurred  to  him  that  another  date  would  ever  be  neces- 
sary. The  Arundelian  marbles,  composed  sixty  years 
after  the  death  of  Alexander  the  Great,  reckon  back- 
wards from  the  then  present  time. 

The  Eoman  era  was  the  building  of  their  city,  —  the 
eternal  city,  as  they  loved  to  call  it. 

The  Mahometans  date  from  the  Hegira,  or  flight  of 
Mahomet  from  Mecca  —  his  birthplace  —  to  Medina' 
A.  D.  622  ;  and  they  have  this  advantage,  that  they 
began  almost  immediately  to  use  it. 

The  era  used  all  over  the  Christian  world  is  the 
birth  of  Christ.  This  was  adopted  as  a  date  about 
A.  D.  360  ;  and  though  there  is  an  uncertainty  of  a  few 
years,  which  are  in  dispute,  the  accuracy  is  sufficient 
for  any  present  purpose. 


* 


420  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

The  reign  of  Nabonassar,  the  first  king  of  Babylon, 
of  Yesdigerd,  the  last  king  of  Persia,  —  who  was  con- 
quered by  the  Saracens,  —  and  of  the  Seleucidae  of 
Syria,  have  likewise  furnished  eras. 

Julius  Scaliger  formed  an  era  which  he  called  the 
Julian  period ;  being  a  cycle  of  7980  years,  produced 
by  multiplying  several  cycles  into  one  another,  so  as  to 
carry  us  back  to  a  period  764  years  before  the  creation 
of  the  world.  This  era,  standing  out  of  all  history  like 
the  fulcrum  which  Archimedes  wished  for,  and  inde- 
pendent of  variation  or  possibility  of  mistake,  was  a 
very  grand  idea ;  and  in  measuring  everything  by 
itself,  measured  it  by  the  eternal  truth  of  the  laws  of 
the  lieavenly  bodies.  But  it  is  not  greatly  employed, 
the  common  era  serving  all  ordinary  purposes.  In 
modern  histories  the  olympiads,  Boman  eras,  and  oth- 
ers, are  reduced  in  the  margin  to  the  year  of  our  Lord, 
or  of  the  creation. 

Such  is  the  nature  of  eras,  now  in  such  common  use 
that  we  can  with  difficulty  conceive  the  confusion  in 
which,  for  want  of  them,  all  the  early  part  of  history  is 
involved,  and  the  strenuous  labors  of  the  most  learned 
men,  which  have  been  employed  in  arranging  them, 
and  reducing  history  to  the  order  in  whioh  we  now 
have  it. 

The  earliest  history  which  we  possess,  as  we  have 
before  observed,  is  that  of  the  Jewish  Scriptures ;  these 


ON  THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  421 

carry  tis  from  the  creation  to  about  the  time  of  Herod- 
otus. Having  no  date,  we  are  obliged  to  compute  from 
generations,  and  to  take  the  reigns  of  kings  where  they 
are  given.  But  a  great  schism  occurs  at  the  very  out- 
set. The  Septuagint  translation  of  the  Mosaic  history 
into  Greek,  which  was  made  by  order  of  Ptolemy  Phila- 
delphus,  differs  from  the  Hebrew  text  by  1400  years 
from  the  creation  to  the  birth  of  Abraham. 

The  chronology  of  the  Assyrian  and  Babylonish 
monarchies  is  involved  in  inextricable  difficulties  ;  nor 
are  we  successful  in  harmonizing  the  Greek  with  the 
Oriental  writers  of  history.  The  Persian  historians 
make  no  mention  of  the  defeat  of  Xerxes  by  the 
Greeks,  or  that  of  Darius  by  Alexander.  All  nations 
have  had  the  vanity  to  make  their  origin  mount  as 
high  as  possible  ;  and  they  have  often  invented  series  of 
kings,  or  have  reckoned  the  contemporary  individuals 
of  different  dynasties  as  following  each  other  in  regular 
succession,  as  if  one  should  take  the  kings  of  the  Hep- 
tarchy singly  instead  of  together. 

You  will  perhaps  ask,  If  we  have  no  eras,  what  have 
we  to  reckon*  by  ?  We  have  generations  and  succes- 
sions of  kings.  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  joined  wonder- 
ful sagacity  to  profound  learning  and  astronomical 
skill,  made  very  great  reforms  in  the  ancient  chronol- 
ogy. He  pointed  out  the  difference  between  genera- 
tions and  successions  of  kings.     A   generation  is  not 


422  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

the  life  of  a  man,  it  is  the  time  that  elapses  before  a 
man  sees  his  successor ;  and  this,  reckoning  to  the 
birth  of  the  eldest  son,  is  estimated  at  about  thirty 
years.  The  succession  of  kings  would  seem,  at  first 
sight  to  be  the  same,  and  so  it  had  been  reckoned ;  but 
Xewton  corrected  it,  on  the  principle  that  kings  are 
often  cut  off  prematurely  in  turbulent  times,  or  are 
succeeded  either  by  their  brothers  or  by  their  uncles, 
or  others  older  than  themselves.  The  lines  of  kings  of 
France,  England,  and  other  countries  within  the  range 
of  exact  chronology,  confirmed  this  principle  ;  he  there- 
fore rectified  all  the  ancient  chronology  according  to  it, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  astronomical  observations  he 
found  reason  to  allow  as  the  average  length  of  a  reign, 
about  eighteen  or  twenty  years.     - 

But,  after  all,  great  part  of  the  chronology  of  ancient 
history  is  founded  upon  conjecture  and  clouded  with 
uncertainty. 

Although  I  recommend  to  vou  a  constant  attention 
to  chronology,  I  do  not  think  it  desirable  to  load  your 
memory  with  a  great  number  of  specific  dates,  both 
because  it  would  be  too  great  a  burden  on  the  reten- 
tive powers,  and  because  it  is,  after  all,  not  the  best 
way  of  attaining  clear  ideas  on  the  subject  of  history. 
In  order  to  do  this  it  is  necessary  to  have  in  your  mind 
the  relative  situation  of  other  countries  at  the  time  of 
any  event  recorded  in  one  of  them.     For  instance,  if 


ON   THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  423 

you  have  got  by  heart  the  dates  of  the  accession  of  the 
kings  of  Europe,  and  want  to  know  whether  John  lived 
at  the  time  of  the  Crusades,  and  in  what  state  the 
Greek  empire  was,  you  cannot  tell  without  an  arith- 
metical process,  which,  perhaps,  you  may  not  be  quick 
enough  to  make.  You  cannot  tell  whether  Constanti- 
nople had  been  taken  by  the  Turks  when  the  Sicilian 
Vespers  happened  ;  for  each  fact  is  insulated  in  your 
mind,  and,  indeed,  your  dates  give  you  only  the  dry 
catalogue  of  accessions.  Nay,  you  may  read  separate 
histories,  and  yet  not  bring  them  together,  if  the 
countries  be  remote.  Each  exists  in  your  mind  sepa- 
rately, and  you  have  at  no  time  the  state  of  the  world. 
But  you  ought  to  have  an  idea  at  once  of  the  whole 
world,  as  far  as  history  will  give  it.  You  do  not  see 
truly  what  the  Greeks  were,  except  you  know  that  the 
British  Isles  were  then  barbarous. 

A  few  dates,  therefore,  perfectly  learned,  may  suffice, 
and  will  serve  as  landmarks  to  prevent  your  going  far 
astray  in  the  rest ;  but  it  will  be  highly  useful  to  con- 
nect the  histories  you  read  in  such  a  manner  in  your 
own  mind  that  you  may  be  able  to  refer  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  form  them  all  into  a  whole.  For  this  pur- 
pose it  is  very  desirable  to  observe  and  retain  in  your 
memory  certain  coincidences  which  may  link,  as  it 
were,  two  nations  together.  Thus  you  may  remember 
that  Haroun  al  Easchid  sent  to  Charlemagne  the  first 


424  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

clock  that  was  seen  in  Europe.  If  you  are  reading  the 
history  of  Greece  when  it  nourished  most,  and  want  to 
know  what  the  Romans  were  doing  at  the  same  time, 
you  may  recollect  that  they  sent  to  Greece  for  instruc- 
tion when  they  wanted  to  draw  up  the  laws  of  the 
Twelve  Tables.  Solon  and  Croesus  connect  the  history 
of  Lesser  Asia  with  that  of  Greece.  Egbert  was 
brought  up  in  the  court  of  Charlemagne.  Philip 
Augustus  of  France  and  Richard  I.  of  England  fought 
in  the  same  crusade  against  Saladin.  Queen  Elizabeth 
received  the  French  ambassador  in  deep  mourning  after 
the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew. 

It  may  be  desirable  to  keep  one  kingdom  as  a 
metre  for  the  rest.  Take  for  this  purpose  first  the 
Jews,  then  the  Greek,  the  Romans,  and,  because  it  is 
so,  our  own  country ;  then  harmonize  and  connect  all 
the  other  dates  with  these. 

That  the  literary  history  of  a  nation  may  be  con- 
nected with  the  political,  study  also  biography,  and 
endeavor  to  link  men  of  science  and  literature,  and 
artists,  with  political  characters.  Thus  Hippocrates 
was  sent  for  to  the  plague  of  Athens ;  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  died  in  the  arms  of  Francis  I.  Often  an  anec- 
dote, a  smart  saying,  will  indissolubly  fix  a  date. 

Sometimes  you  may  take  a  long  reign,  as  that  of 
Elizabeth  or  Louis  XIV.,  and,  making  that  the  centre, 
mark   all   the   contemporary  sovereigns,  and   also  the 


ON   THE   USES   OF  HISTORY.  425 

men  of  letters.  Another  way  is  to  make  a  line  of  life, 
composed  of  distinguished  characters  who  touch  each 
other.  It  will  be  of  great  service  to  you  in  this  view 
to  study  Dr.  Priestley's  biographical  chart ;  and  of  still 
greater  to  make  one  for  yourself,  and  fill  it  by  degrees 
as  your  acquaintance  with  history  extends.  Marriages 
connect  the  history  of  different  kingdoms  ;  as  those  of 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots  and  Francis  II.,  Philip  II.  and 
Mary  of  England. 

These  are  the  kind  of  dates  which  make  everything 
lie  in  the  mind  in  its  proper  order ;  they  also  take  fast 
hold  of  it.  If  you  forget  the  exact  date  by  years,  you 
have  nothing  left ;  but  of  circumstances  you  never  lose 
all  idea.  As  we  come  nearer  to  our  own  times,  dates 
must  be  more  exact.  A  few  years  more  or  less  signify 
little  in  the  destruction  of  Troy,  if  we  knew  it  exactly; 
but  the  conclusion  of  the  American  war  should  be 
accurately  known,  or  it  will  throw  other  events  near  it 
into  confusion. 

In  so  extensive  a  study  no  auxiliary  is  to  be 
neglected :  poetry  impresses  both  geography  and  his- 
tory in  a  most  agreeable  manner  upon  those  who  are 
fond  of  it ;  thus  :  — 

".  .  .  .  fair  Austria  spreads  her  mournful  charms, 
The  queen,  the  beauty,  sets  the  world  in  arms." 

A  short,  lively  character  in  verse  is  never  forgotten :  — 

"  From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede." 


426  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

Historic  plays  deeply  impress,  but  should  be  read  with 
caution.  We  take  our  ideas  from  Shakespeare  more 
than  history  ;  he,  indeed,  copied  pretty  exactly  from  the 
chroniclers,  but  other  dramatic  writers  have  taken 
great  liberties  both  with  characters  and  events. 

Painting  is  a  good  auxiliary;  and  though  in  this 
country  history  is  generally  read  before  we  see  pic- 
tures, they  mutually  illustrate  one  another.  Painting 
also  shows  the  costume.  In  France,  where  pictures  are 
more  accessible,  there  is  more  knowledge  generally  dif- 
fused of  common  history.  Many  have  learned  Scrip- 
ture history  from  -the  rude  figures  on  Dutch  tiles. 

I  will  conclude  with  the  remark,  that,  though  the 
beginner  in  history  may  and  ought  to  study  dates  and 
epochs  for  his  guidance,  chronology  can  never  be  fully 
possessed  till  after  history  has  been  long  studied  and 
carefully  digested. 

Farewell ;  and  believe  me 

Yours  affectionately. 


FASHION.  427 


FASHION. 


A  VISION. 


YOUNG  as  you  are,  my  dear  Flora,  you  cannot  but 
have  noticed  the  eagerness  with  which  questions 
relative  to  civil  liberty  have  been  discussed  in  every 
society.  To  break  .the  shackles  of  oppression  and 
assert  the  native  rights  of  man  is  esteemed  by  many 
among  the  noblest  efforts  of  heroic  virtue ;  but  vain  is 
the  possession  of  political  liberty  if  there  exists  a 
tyrant  of  our  own  creation,  who,  without  law  or  reason, 
or  even  external  force,  exercises  over  us  the  most 
despotic  authority ;  whose  jurisdiction  is  extended  over 
every  part  of  private  and  domestic  life ;  controls  our 
pleasures,  fashions  our  garb,  cramps  our  motions,  fills 
our  lives  with  vain  cares  and  restless  anxiety.  The 
worst  slavery  is  that  which  we  voluntarily  impose 
upon  ourselves ;  and  no  chains  are  so  cumbrous  and 
galling  as  those  which  we  are  pleased  to  wear  by  way 
of  grace  and  ornament.  —  Musing  upon  this  idea  gave 
rise  to  the  following  dream  or  vision :  — 

Methought  I  was  in  a  country  of  the  strangest  and 
most  singular  appearance  I  had  ever  beheld :  the  rivers 


428  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

were  forced  into  jets  cCeau  and  wasted  in  artificial 
water- works ;  the  lakes  were  fashioned  by  the  hand  of 
art;  the  roads  were  sanded  with  spar  and  gold-dust ; 
the  trees  all  bore  the  mark's  of  the  shears,  they  were 
bent  and  twisted  into  the  most  whimsical  forms,  and 
connected  together  by  festoons  of  ribbon  and  silk 
fringe ;  the  wild  flowers  were  transplanted  into  vases 
of  fine  china,  and  painted  with  artificial  white  and  red. 

The  disposition  of  the  ground  was  full  of  fancy,  but 
grotesque  and  unnatural  in  the  highest  degree ;  it  was 
all  highly  cultivated,  and  bore  the  marks  of  wonderful 
industry ;  but  among  its  various  productions  I  could 
hardly  discern  one  that  was  of  any  use. 

My  attention,  however,  was  soon  called  off  from  the 
scenes  of  inanimate  life  by  the  view  of  the  inhabitants, 
whose  form  and  appearance  was  so  very  preposterous, 
and,  indeed,  so  unlike  anything  human,  that  I  fancied 
myself  transported  to  the  country  of 

"The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders  "  : 

for  the  heads  of  many  of  these  people  were  swelled  to 
an  astonishing  size,  and  seemed  to  be  placed  in  the 
middle  of  their  bodies.  Of  some,  the  ears  were  dis- 
tended till  they  hung  upon  the  shoulders ;  and  of 
others,  the  shoulders  were  raised  till  they  met  the  ears : 
there  was  not  one  free  from  some  deformity,  or  mon- 


FASHION.  429 

strous  swelling,  in  one  part  or  other;  either  it  was 
before,  or  behind,  or  about  the  hips,  or  the  arms  were 
puffed  up  to  an  unusual  thickness,  or  the  throat  was 
increased  to  the  same  size  with  the  poor  objects  once 
exhibited  under  the  name  of  the  monstrous  Craws : 
some  had  no  necks ;  others  had  necks  that  reached 
almost  to  their  waists  ;  the  bodies  of  some  were  bloated 
up  to  such  a  size  that  they  could  scarcely  enter  a  pair 
of  folding  doors ;  and  others  had  suddenly  sprouted  up 
to  such  a  disproportionate  height  that  they  could  not 
sit  upright  in  their  loftiest  carriages. 

Many  shocked  me  with  the  appearance  of  being 
nearly  cut  in  two,  like  a  wasp ;  and  I  was  alarmed  at 
the  sight  of  a  few,  in  whose  faces,  otherwise  very  fair 
and  healthy,  I  discovered  an  eruption  of  black  spots, 
which  I  feared  was  the  fatal  sign  of  some  pestilential 
disorder. 

The  sight  of  these  various  and  uncouth  deformities 
inspired  me  with  much  pity ;  which,  however,  was  soon 
changed  into  disgust,  when  I  perceived,  with  great  sur- 
prise, that  every  one  of  these  unfortunate  men  and 
women  was  exceeding  proud  of  his  own  peculiar  de- 
formity, and  endeavored  to  attract  my  notice  to  it  as 
much  as  possible.  A  lady,  in  particular,  who  had  a 
swelling  under  her  throat,  larger  than  any  goitre  in  the 
Valais,  and  which,  I  am  sure,  by  its  enormous  projec- 
tion, prevented  her  from  seeing  the  path  she  walked  in, 


430  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

brushed  by  me  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  self-compla- 
cency, and  asked  me  if  she  was  not  a  charming 
creature. 

But  by  this  time  I  found  myself  surrounded  by  an 
immense  crowd,  who  were  all  pressing  along  in  one 
direction;  and  I  perceived  that  I  was  drawn  along 
with  them  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  which  grew 
stronger  every  moment.  I  asked  whither  we  were 
hurrying  with  such  eager  steps,  and  was  told  that  we 
were  going  to  the  court  of  Queen  Fashion,  the  great 
Diana  whom  all  the  world  worshippeth.  I  would  have 
retired,  but  felt  myself  impelled  to  go  on,  though  with- 
out being  sensible  of  any  outward  force. 

When  I  came  to  the  royal  presence,  I  was  aston- 
ished at  the  magnificence  I  saw  around  me.  The 
queen  was  sitting  on  a  throne,  elegantly  fashioned  in 
the  form  of  a  shell,  and  inlaid  with  gems  and  mother- 
of-pearl.  It  was  supported  by  a  camelion,  formed  of  a 
single  emerald.  She  was  dressed  in  a  light  robe  of 
changeable  silk,  which  fluttered  about  her  in  a  profu- 
sion of  fantastic  folds,  that  imitated  the  form  of  clouds, 
and  like  them  were  continually  changing  their  appear- 
ance. In  one  hand  she  held  a  rouge-box,  and  in  the 
other  one  of  those  optical  glasses  which  distort  figures 
in  length  or  in  breadth  according  to  the  position  in 
which  they  are  held.  At  the  foot  of  the  throne  was 
displayed  a  profusion  of  the   richest   productions  of 


FASHION.  431 

every  quarter  of  the  globe,  tributes  from  land  and  sea, 
from  every  animal  and  plant;  perfumes,  sparkling 
stones,  drops  of  pearl,  chains  of  gold,  webs  of  the  finest 
linen;  wreaths  of  flowers,  the  produce  of  art,  which 
vied  with  the  most  delicate  productions  of  nature ;  for- 
ests of  feathers  waving  their  brilliant  colors  in  the  air 
and  canopying  the  throne;  glossy  silks,  network  of 
lace,  silvery  ermine,  soft  folds  of  vegetable  wool,  rus- 
tling paper,  and  shining  spangles ;  —  the  whole  inter- 
mixed with  pendants  and  streamers  of  the  gayest  tinc- 
tured ribbon. 

All  these  together  made  so  brilliant  an  appearance 
that  my  eyes  were  at  first  dazzled,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  I  recovered  myself  enough  to  observe  the 
ceremonial  of  the  court.  Near  the  throne,  and  its 
chief  supports,  stood  the  queen's  two  prime-  ministers, 
Caprice  on  one  side  and  Vanity  on  the  other.  Two 
officers  seemed  chiefly  busy  among  the  attendants. 
One  of  them  was  a  man  with  a  pair  of  shears  in  his 
hand  and  a  goose  by  his  side,  —  a  mysterious  emblem, 
of  which  I  could  not  fathom  the  meaning :  he  sat  cross- 
legged,  like  the  great  lama  of  the  Tartars.  He  was 
busily  employed  in  cutting  out  coats  and  garments ; 
not,  however,  like  Dorcas,  for  the  poor,  —  nor,  indeed, 
did  they  seem  intended  for  any  mortal  whatever,  so  ill 
were  they  adapted  to  the  shape  of  the  human  body. 
Some  of  the  garments  were  extravagantly  large,  others 


432  WORKS   OF   MBS.    BARBAULD. 

as  preposterously  small :  of  others,  it  was  difficult  to 
guess  to  'what  part  of  the  person  they  were  meant  to  be 
applied.  Here  were  coverings,  which  did  not  cover; 
ornaments,  which  disfigured ;  and  defences  against  the 
weather,  more  slight  and  delicate  than  what  they  were 
meant  to  defend ;  but  all  were  eagerly  caught  up,  with- 
out distinction,  by  the  crowds  of  votaries  who  were 
waiting  to  receive  them. 

The  other  officer  was  dressed  in  a  white  succinct 
linen  garment,  like  a  priest  of  the  lower  order.  He 
moved  in  a  cloud  of  incense  more  highly  scented  than 
the  breezes  of  Arabia ;  he  carried  a  tuft  of  the  whitest 
down  of  the  swan  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  a  small 
iron  instrument,  heated  red-hot,  which  he  brandished 
in  the  air.  It  was  with  infinite  concern  I  beheld  the 
Graces  bound  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  and  obliged  to 
officiate  as  handmaids  under  the  direction  of  these  two 
officers. 

I  now  began  to  inquire  by  what  laws  this  queen  gov- 
erned her  subjects,  but  soon  found  her  administration 
was  that  of  the  most  arbitrary  tyrant  ever  known. 
Her  laws  are  exactly  the  reverse  of  those  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians,  for  they  are  changed  every  day  and 
every  hour :  and  what  makes  the  matter  still  more  per- 
plexing, they  are  in  no  written  code,  nor  even  made 
public  by  proclamation :  they  are  only  promulgated  by 
whispers,  an  obscure  sign  or  turn  of  the  eye,  which 


FASHION.  433 

those  only  who  have  the  happiness  to  stand  near  the 
queen  can  catch  with  any  degree  of  precision :  yet  the 
smallest  transgression  of  the  laws  is  severely  punished ; 
not  indeed  by  fines  or  imprisonment,  but  by  a  sort 
of  interdict  similar  to  that  which  in  superstitious  times 
was  laid  by  the  Pope  on  disobedient  princes,  and 
which  operated  in  such  a  manner  that  no  one  would 
eat,  drink,  or  associate  with  the  forlorn  culprit,  and  he 
was  almost  deprived  of  the  use  of  fire  and  water. 

This  difficulty  of  discovering  the  will  of  the  goddess 
occasioned  so  much  crowding  to  be  near  the  throne, 
such  jostling  and  elbowing  of  one  another,  that  I  was 
glad  to  retire  and  observe  what  I  could  among  the 
scattered  crowd ;  and  the  first  thing  I  took  notice  of 
was  various  instruments  of  torture  which  everywhere 
met  my  eyes.  Torture  has,  in  most  other  governments 
of  Europe,  been  abolished  by  the  mild  spirit  of  the 
times ;  but  it  reigns  here  in  full  force  and  terror.  I 
saw  officers  of  this  cruel  court  employed  in  boring 
holes  with  red-hot  wires  in  the  ears,  nose,  and  various 
parts  of  the  body,  and  then  distending  them  with  the 
weight  of  metal  chains  or  stones,  cut  into  a  variety 
of  shapes ;  some  had  invented  a  contrivance  for  cramp- 
ing the  feet  in  such  a  manner  that  many  are  lamed 
by  it  for  their  whole  lives.  Others  I  saw,  slender  and 
delicate  in  their  form  and  naturally  nimble  as  the 
young  antelope,  who  were  obliged  to  carry  constantly 

VOL.   II.  19  .  B  B 


43-4  WOKKS    OF   MKS.    BABBAULD. 

about  with  them  a  cumbrous,  unwieldy  machine  of  a 
pyramidal  form,  several  ells  in  circumference. 

But  the  most  common,  and  one  of  the  worst  instru- 
ments of  torture,  was  a  small  machine  armed  with  fish- 
bone and  ribs  of  steel,  wide  at  top  but  extremely  small 
at  bottom.  In  this  detestable  invention  the  queen 
orders  the  bodies  of  her  female  subjects  to  be  enclosed : 
it  is  then,  by  means  of  silk  cords,  drawn  closer  and 
closer  at  intervals,  till  the  unhappy  victim  can  scarcely 
breathe ;  and  they  have  found  the  exact  point  that  can 
be  borne  without  fainting,  which,  however,  not  unfre- 
quently  happens.  The  flesh  is  often  excoriated,  and 
the  very  ribs  bent,  by  this  cruel  process.  Yet,  what 
astonished  me  more  than  all  the  rest,  these  sufferings 
are  borne  with  a  degree  of  fortitude  which,  in  a  better 
cause,  would  immortalize  a  hero  or  canonize  a  saint. 
The  Spartan  who  suffered  the  fox  to  eat  into  his  vitals 
did  not  bear  pain  with  greater  resolution ;  and  as  the 
Spartan  mothers  brought  their  children  to  be  scourged 
at  the  altar  of  Diana,  so  do  the  mothers  here  bring 
their  children, — and  chiefly  those  whose  tender  sex 
one  would  suppose  excused  them  from  such  exertions, 
—  and  early  inure  them  to  this  cruel  discipline.  But 
neither  Spartan,  nor  Dervise,  nor  Bonze,  nor  Carthu- 
sian monk,  ever  exercised  more  unrelenting  severities 
over  their  bodies  than  these  young  zealots :  indeed, 
the  first  lesson  they  are  taught  is  a  surrender  of  their 


FASHION.  435 

own  inclinations  and  an  implicit  obedience  to  the  com- 
mands of  the  Goddess. 

But  they  have,  besides,  a  more  solemn  kind  of  dedi- 
cation, something  similar  to  the  rite  of  confirmation. 
When  a  young  woman  approaches  the  marriageable 
age,  she  is  led  to  the  altar :  her  hair,  which  before  fell 
loosely  about  her  shoulders,  is  tied  up  in  a  tress,  sweet 
oils  drawn  from  roses  and  spices  are  poured  upon  it; 
she  is  involved  in  a  cloud  of  scented  dust,  and  invested 
with  ornaments  under  which  she  can  scarcely  move. 
After  this  solemn  ceremony,  which  is  generally  con- 
cluded by  a  dance  round  the  altar,  the  damsel  is 
obliged  to  a  still  stricter  conformity  than  before  to  the 
laws  and  customs  of  the  court,  and  any  deviation  from 
them  is  severely  punished. 

The  courtiers  of  Alexander,  it  is  said,  flattered  him 
by  carrying  their  heads  on  one  side,  because  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  have  a  wry  neck;  but  all  adulation 
is  poor  compared  to  what  is  practised  in  this  court. 
Sometimes  the  queen  will  lisp  and  stammer,  —  and 
then  none  of  her  attendants  can  speak  plain  ;  some- 
times she  chooses  to  totter  as  she  walks,  —  and  then 
they  are  seized  with  sudden  lameness :  according  as 
she  appears  half  undressed,  or  veiled  from  head  to  foot, 
her  subjects  become  a  procession  of  nuns,  or  a  troop 
of  Bacchanalian  nymphs.  I  could  not  help  observing, 
however,  that  those  who  stood  at  the  greatest  distance 


436  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

from  the  throne  were  the  most  extravagant  in  their 
imitation. 

I  was  by  this  time  thoroughly  disgusted  with  the 
character  of  a  sovereign  at  once  so  light  and  so  cruel, 
so  fickle  and  so  arbitrary,  when  one  who  stood  next  me 
bade  me  attend  to  still  greater  contradictions  in  her 
character,  and  such  as  might  serve  to  soften  the  indig- 
nation I  had  conceived.  He  took  me  to  the  back 
of  the  throne  and  made  me  take  notice  of  a  number 
of  industrious  poor,  to  whom  the  queen  was  secretly 
distributing  bread.  I  saw  the  Genius  of  Commerce 
doim*  her  homage,  and  discovered  the  British  cross 
woven  into  the  insignia  of  her  dignity. 

While  I  was  musing  on  these  things  a  murmur  arose 
among  the  crowd,  and  I  was  told  that  a  young  votary 
was  approaching.  I  turned  my  head  and  saw  a  light 
figure,  the  folds  of  whose  garment  showed  the  elegant 
turn  of  the  limbs  they  covered,  tripping  along  with  the 
step  of  a  nymph.  I  soon  knew  it  to  be  yourself:  — 
I  saw  you  led  up  to  the  altar,  —  I  saw  your  beautiful 
hair  tied  in  artificial  tresses,  and  its  bright  gloss 
stained  with  colored  dust,  —  I  even  fancied  I  beheld 
produced  the  dreadful  instrument  of  torture ;  —  my 
emotions  increased,  —  I  cried  out,  "  0  spare  her  !  spare 
my  Flora  !  "  with  so  much  vehemence  that  I  awaked. 


DESCRIPTION   OF   TWO   SISTERS.  437 


DESCRIPTION   OF  TWO   SISTERS. 

DEAR  COUSIN,  —  Our  conversation  last  night 
upon  beauties  put  me  in  mind  of  two  charming 
sisters,  with  whom  I  think  you  must  be  acquainted  as 
well  as  I,  though  they  were  not  in  your  list  of  belles. 
Their  charms  are  very  different,  however.  The  young- 
est is  generally  thought  the  handsomest,  and  yet  other 
beauties  shine  more  in  her  company  than  in  her  sis- 
ter's, whether  it  be  that  her  gay  looks  diffuse  a  lustre 
on  all  around,  while  her  sister's  beauty  has  an  air  of 
majesty  which  strikes  with  awe,  or  that  the  younger 
sets  every  one  she  is  with  in  the  fairest  light,  and  dis- 
covers perfections  which  were  before  concealed,  whilst 
the  elder  seems  only  solicitous  to  set  off  her  own  per- 
son and  throw  a  shade  upon  every  one  else ;  yet  — 
what  you  will  think  strange  —  it  is  she  who  is  gener- 
ally preferred  for  a  confidant ;  for  her  sister,  with  all  her 
amiable  qualities,  cannot  keep  a  secret. 

0  what  an  eye  the  younger  has  !  as  if  she  could  look 
a  person  through  ;  yet  modest  is  her  countenance,  even 
and  composed  her  pace,  and  she  treads  so  softly,  — 
"smooth  sliding  without   step,"  as  Milton  says.     She 


438  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BARBAULD. 

seldom  meets  you  without  blushing,  —  her  sister  can- 
not blush.  She  dresses  very  gayly,  sometimes  in 
clouded  silks,  which,  indeed,  she  first  brought  into  fash- 
ion ;  but  blue  is  her  most  becoming  color,  and  she  gen- 
erally appears  in  it.  Now  and  then  she  wears  a  very 
rich  scarf  or  sash  braided  with  all  manner  of  colors. 

The  elder,  like  the  Spanish  ladies,  dresses  in  black, 
in  order   to  set   off  her  jewels,  of  which   she   has   a 

greater  number  than  Lady ,  and,  if  I  might  judge, 

much  finer.  I  cannot  pretend  to  give  you  a  catalogue 
of  them ;  they  are  of  all  sizes,  and  set  in  all  figures. 
Her  enemies  say  she  does  well  to  adorn  her  dusky 
brow  with  brilliants,  and  that  without  them  she  would 
be  but  little  taken  notice  of;  but  certain  it  is,  she  has 
inspired  more  serious  and  Enthusiastic  passions  than 
her  sister,  whose  admirers  are  often  fops  more  in  love 
with  themselves  than  with  her.  A  learned  clergyman 
some  time  ago  fell  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  wrote  a 
fine  copy  of  verses  on  her ;  and,  what  was  worst,  her  sis- 
ter could  not  go  into  company  without  hearing  them. 

One  thing  they  quite  agree  in,  —  not  to  go  out  of 
their  way  or  alter  their  pace  for  anybody.  Once  or 
twice,  indeed,  I  have  heard  that  the  younger ....  but 
it  was  a  great  while  ago,  and  she  was  not  so  old  then, 
and  so  was  more  complaisant.  She  is  generally  waked 
with  a  fine  concert  of  music ;  the  other  prefers  a  good 
solo 


DESCRIPTION   OF  TWO   SISTERS.  439 

But  see  !  the  younger  beauty  looks  pale  and  sick ! 
She  faints,  —  she  is  certainly  dying !  a  slight  blush 
still  upon  her  cheek  !  it  fades,  fast,  fast.  —  She  is  gone, 
yet  a  sweet  smile  overspreads  her  countenance.  Will 
she  revive  ?  Shall  /  ever  see  her  again  ?  Who  can 
tell  ine  ? 


440  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 

FRIENDSHIP  is  that  warm,  tender,  lively  attach- 
ment which  takes  place  between  persons  in  whom 
a  similarity  of  tastes  and  manners,  joined  to  frequent 
intercourse,  has  produced  an  habitual  fondness  for  each 
other.  It  is  not  among  our  duties,  for  it  does  not  flow 
from  any  of  the  necessary  relations  of  society ;  but  it 
has  its  duties  when  voluntarily  entered  into.  In  its 
highest  perfection  it  can  only,  I  believe,  subsist 
between  two ;  for  that  unlimited  confidence  and  per- 
fect conformity  of  inclinations  which  it  requires  cannot 
well  be  found  in  a  larger  number.  Besides,  one  sucli 
friendship  fills  the  heart,  and  leaves  no  want  or  desire 
after  another. 

Friendship,  where  it  is  quite  sincere  and  affectionate, 
free  from  affectation  or  interested  views,  is  one  of  the 
greatest  blessings  of  life.  It  doubles  our  joys,  and  it 
lessens  our  sorrows,  when  we  are  able  to  pour  both 
into  the  bosom  of  one  who  takes  the  tenderest  part  in 
all  our  interests,  who  is  to  us  another  self.  We  love  to 
communicate  all  our  feelings  ;  and  it  is  in  the  highest 
decree   grateful  where  we  can  do  it  to  one  who  will 


ON   FRIENDSHIP.  441 

enter  into  them  all;  who  takes  an  interest  in  every- 
thing that  befalls  ns ;  before  whom  we  can  freely 
indulge  even  our  little  weaknesses  and  foibles,  and 
show  our  minds,  as  it  were,  undressed ;  who  will  take 
part  in  all  our  schemes,  advise  us  in  any  emergency; 
who  rejoices  in  our  company,  and  who,  we  are  sure, 
thinks  of  us  in  our  absence. 

With  regard  to  the  choice  of  friends,  there  is  little  to 
say ;  for  a  friend  was  never  chosen.  A  secret  sympa- 
thy, the  attraction  of  a  thousand  nameless  qualities,  a 
charm  in  the  expression  of  the  countenance,  even  in 
the  voice  or  the  manner,  a  similarity  of  circumstances, 
—  these  are  the  things  that  begin  attachment,  which  is 
fostered  by  being  in  a  situation  which  gives  occasion 
for  frequent  intercourse ;  and  this  depends  upon 
chance.  Eeason  and  prudence  have,  however,  much  to 
do  in  restraining  our  choice  of  improper  or  dangerous 
friends.  They  are  improper  if  our  line  of  life  and  pur- 
suits are  so  totally  different  as  to  make  it  improbable 
we  shall  long  keep  up  an  intimacy,  at  least  without 
sacrificing  to  it  connections  of  duty ;  they  are  danger- 
ous if  they  are  in  any  respect  vicious. 

It  has  been  made  a  question  whether  friendship  can 
subsist  among  the  vicious.  If  by  vicious  be  meant 
those  who  are  void  of  the  social,  generous,  and  affec- 
tionate feelings,  it  is  most  certain  it  cannot,  because 
these  make  the  very  essence  of  it.     But  it  is  very  pos- 

19* 


442  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

sible  for  persons  to  possess  fine  feelings  without  that 
steady  principle  which  alone  constitutes  virtue ;  and  it 
does  not  appear  why  such  may  not  feel  a  real  friend- 
ship. It  will  not,  indeed,  be  so  likely  to  be  lasting, 
and  is  often  succeeded  by  bitter  enmities. 

The  duties  of  friendship  are,  first,  sincere  and  disin- 
terested affection.  This  seems  self-evident ;  and  yet 
there  are  many  who  pretend  to  love  their  friends,  when 
at  the  same  time  they  only  take  delight  in  them,  as  we 
delight  in  a  fine  voice  or  a  good  picture.  If  you  Jove 
your  friend,  you  will  love  him  when  his  powers  of 
pleasing  and  entertaining  you  have  given  way  to  mal- 
ady or  depression  of  spirit.  You  will  study  Jiis  inter- 
est and  satisfaction  ;  you  will  be  ready  to  resign  his 
company,  to  promote  his  advantageous  settlement  at  a 
distant  residence,  to  favor  his  connection  with  other 
friends.  These  are  the  tests  of  true  affection ;  without 
such  a  disposition  you  may  enjoy  your  friend,  but  you 
do  not  love  him. 

Xext,  friendship  requires  pure  sincerity  and  the 
most  unreserved  confidence.  Sincerity  every  man  has 
a  right  to  expect  from  us,  but  every  man  has  not  a 
right  to  our  confidence.  This  is  the  sacred  and  pecu- 
liar privilege  of  friendship ;  and  so  essential  is  it  to  the 
very  idea  of  this  connection,  that  even  to  serve  a  friend 
without  giving  him  our  confidence  is  but  going  half- 
way ;  it  may  command  gratitude,  but  will  not  produce 


ON   FRIENDSHIP.  443 

love.  Above  all  things,  the  general  tenor  of  our 
thoughts  and  feelings  must  be  shown  to  our  friends 
exactly  as  they  are  ;  without  any  of  those  glosses,  col- 
orings, and  disguises,  which  we  do,  and  partly  must, 
put  on  in  our  commerce  with  the  world. 

Another  duty  resulting  from  this  confidence  is  invio- 
lable secrecy  in  what  has  been  intrusted  to  us.  To 
every  one,  indeed,  we  owe  secrecy  in  what  we  are  for- 
mally intrusted  with ;  but,  with  regard  to  a  friend,  this 
extends  to  the  concealing  everything  which  in  the  ful- 
ness of  his  heart  and  in  the  freedom  of  unguarded  con- 
versation he  has  let  drop,  if  you  have  the  least  idea  it 
may  in  any  manner  injure  or  offend  him.  In  short, 
you  are  to  consider  yourself  as  always,  to  him,  under 
an  implied  promise  of  secrecy;  and  should  even  the 
friendship  dissolve,  it  would  be  in  the  highest  degree 
ungenerous  to  consider  this  obligation  as  dissolved 
with  it. 

In  the  next  place,  a  friend  has  a  right  to  our  best 
advice  on  every  emergency ;  and  this,  even  though  we 
run  the  risk  of  offending  him  by  our  frankness. 
Friends  should  consider  themselves  as  the  sacred  guar- 
dians of  each  other's  virtue  ;  and  the  noblest  testimony 
they  can  give  of  their  affection  is  the  correction  of  the 
faults  of  those  they  love.  But  this  generous  solicitude 
must  be  distinguished  from  a  teazing,  captious,  or  too 
officious  notice  of  all  the   little    defects   and  frailties 


444  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

which  their  close  intercourse  with  each  other  brings 
continually  into  view :  these  must  be  overlooked  or 
borne  with  ;  for  as  we  are  not  perfect  ourselves,  we 
have  no  right  to  expect  our  friends  should  be  so. 

Friends  are  most  easily  acquired  in  youth,  but  they 
are  likewise  most  easily  lost;  the  petulance  and  im- 
petuosity of  that  age,  the  eager  competitions  and  rival- 
ships  of  an  active  life,  and  more  especially  the  various 
changes  in  rank  and  fortune,  connections,  party,  opin- 
ions, or  local  situations,  burst  asunder  or  silently 
untwist  the  far  greater  part  of  those  friendships  which, 
in  the  warmth  of  youthful  attachment,  we  had  fondly 
promised  ourselves  should  be  indissoluble. 

Happy  is  he  to  whom  in  the  maturer  season  of  life 
there  remains  one  tried  and  constant  friend.  Their 
affection,  mellowed  by  the  hand  of  time,  endeared  by 
the  recollection  of  enjoyments,  toils,  and  even  suffer- 
ings shared  together,  becomes  the  balm,  the  consola- 
tion, and  the  treasure  of  life.     Such   a  friendship   is 

inestimable,  and  should  be  preserved  with  the  utmost 

< 
care ;   for  it  is  utterly  impossible  for  any  art  ever  to 

transfer  to  another  the  effect  of  all  those  accumulated 

associations  which  endear  to  us  the  friend *of  our  early 

years. 

These  considerations   should   likewise  induce  us  to 

show  a  tender  indulgence  to  our  friends,  even  for  those 

faults  which  most  sensibly  wound  the  feeling  heart,  — 


ON   FRIENDSHIP.  445 

a  growing  coldness  and  indifference.  These  may  be 
brought  on  by  many  circumstances  which  do  not 
imply  a  bad  heart ;  and  provided  we  do  not  by  bitter 
complaints  and  an  open  rupture  preclude  the  possibil- 
ity of  a  return,  in  a  more  favorable  conjuncture  the 
friendships  of  our  youth  may  knit  again,  and  be  culti- 
vated with  more  genuine  tenderness  than  ever. 

I  must  here  take  occasion  to  observe,  that  there  is 
nothing  young  people  ought  to  guard  against  with  more 
care  than  a  parade  of  feeling  and  a  profusion  of  exag- 
gerated protestations.  These  may  sometimes  proceed 
from  the  amiable  warmth  of  a  youthful  heart ;  but 
they  much  oftener  flow  from  the  affectation  of  senti- 
ment, which  is  both  contemptible  and  morally  wrong. 

All  that  has  been  said  of  the  duties  or  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  friendship  in  its  most  exalted  sense  is  applicable 
in  a  proportionate  degree  to  every  connection  in  which 
there  exists  any  portion  of  this  generous  affection.  So 
far  as  it  does  exist  in  the  various  relations  of  life,  so 
far  it  renders  them  interesting  and  valuable ;  and  were 
the  capacity  for  it  taken  away  from  the  human  heart,  it 
would  find  a  dreary  void,  and  starve  amidst  all  the  means 
of  enjoyment  the  world  could  pour  out  before  it. 


446  '  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


CONFIDENCE  AND  MODESTY: 

A  FABLE. 

WHEN  the  Gods,  knowing  it  to  be  for  the  benefit 
of  mortals  that  the  few  should  lead  and  that 
the  many  should  follow,  sent  down  into  this  lower 
world  Ignorance  and  Wisdom,  they  decreed  to  each 
of  them  an  attendant  and  guide,  to  conduct  their  steps 
and  facilitate  their  introduction.  To  Wisdom  they 
gave  Confidence,  and  Ignorance  they  placed  under  the 
guidance  of  Modesty.  Thus  paired,  the  parties  trav- 
elled about  the  world  for  some  time  with  mutual  satis- 
faction. 

Wisdom,  whose  eye  was  clear  and  piercing,  and  com- 
manded a  long  reach  of  country,  followed  her  conductor 
with  pleasure  and  alacrity.  She  saw  the  windings  of 
the  road  at  a  great  distance;  her  foot  was  firm,  her 
ardor  was  unbroken,  and  she  ascended  the  hill  or 
traversed  the  plain  with  speed  and  safety. 

Ignorance,  on  the  other  hand,  was  short-sighted  and 
timid.  When  she  came  to  a  spot  where  the  road 
branched  out  in  different  directions,  or  was  obliged  to 
pick   her  way  through   the   obscurity  of  the   tangled 


CONFIDENCE  AND   MODESTY.  447 

thicket,  she  was  frequently  at  a  loss,  and  was  accus- 
tomed to  stop  till  some  one  appeared,  to  give  her 
the  necessary  information,  which  the  interesting  coun- 
tenance of  her  companion  seldom  failed  to  procure 
her. 

Wisdom  in  the  mean  time,  led  by  a  natural  instinct, 
advanced  towards  the  temple  of  Science  and  Eternal 
Truth.  For  some  time  the  way  lay  plain  before  her, 
and  she  followed  her  guide  with  unhesitating  steps : 
but  she  had  not  proceeded  far  before  the  paths  grew 
intricate  and  entangled;  the  meeting  branches  of  the 
trees  spread  darkness  over  her  head,  and  steep  moun- 
tains barred  her  way,  whose  summits,  lost  in  clouds, 
ascended  beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  vision.  At  every 
new  turn  of  the  road  her  guide  urged  her  to  proceed ; 
but  after  advancing  a  little  way,  she  was  often  obliged 
to  measure  back  her  steps,  and  often  found  herself 
involved  in  the  mazes  of  a  labyrinth  which,  after  ex- 
ercising her  patience  and  her  strength,  ended  but  where 
it  began. 

In  the  mean  time  Ignorance,  who  was  naturally  im- 
patient, could  but  ill  bear  the  continual  doubts  and 
hesitation  of  her  companion.  She  hated  deliberation, 
and  could  not  submit  to  delay.  At  length  it  so  hap- 
pened that  she  found  herself  on  a  spot  where  three 
ways  met,  and  no  indication  was  to  be  found  which 
might  direct  her  to  the  right  road.     Modesty  advised 


448  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

her  to  wait ;  and  she  had  waited  till  her  patience  was 
exhausted.  At  that  moment  Confidence,  who  was  in 
disgrace  with  Wisdom  for  some  false  steps  he  had  led 
her  into,  and  who  had  just  been  discarded  from  her 
presence,  came  up,  and  offered  himself  to  be  her  guide. 
He  was  accepted.  Under  his  auspices  Ignorance,  nat- 
urally swift  of  foot,  and  who  could  at  any  time  have 
outrun  Wisdom,  boldly  pressed  forward,  pleased  and 
satisfied  with  her  new  companion.  He  knocked  at 
every  door,  visited  castle  and  convent,  and  introduced 
his  charge  to  many  a  society  whence  Wisdom  found 
herself  excluded. 

Modesty,  in  the  mean  time,  finding  she  could  be  of 
no  further  use  to  her  charge,  offered  her  services  to 
Wisdom.  They  were  mutually  pleased  with  each  other, 
and  soon  agreed  never  to  separate.  And  ever  since  that 
time  Ignorance  has  been  led  by  Confidence,  and  Mod- 
esty has  been  found  in  the  Society,  of  Wisdom. 


picnic.  449 


MONKS 

PRAY,  mamma,  what  is  the  meaning  of  picnic  ? 
I  have  heard  lately  once  or  twice  of  a  picnic 
supper,  and  I  cannot  think  what  it  means ;  I  looked 
for  the  word  in  Johnson's  Dictionary  and  could  not 
find  it. 

I  should  wonder  if  you  had ;  the  word  was  not  coined 
in  Johnson's  time :  and  if  it  had,  I  believe  he  would 
have  disdained  to  insert  it  among  the  legitimate  words 
of  the  language.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  derivation  of 
the  phrase ;  I  believe  picnic  was  originally  a  cant  word, 
and  was  first  applied  to  a  supper  or  other  meal  in 
which  the  entertainment  is  not  provided  by  any  one 
person,  but  each  of  the  guests  furnishes  his  dish.  In 
a  picnic  supper  one  supplies  the  fowls,  another  the 
fish,  another  the  wine  and  fruit,  etc. ;  and  they  all  sit 
down  together  and  enjoy  it. 

A  very  sociable  way  of  making  an  entertainment. 

Yes,  and  I  would  have  you  observe  that  the  prin- 
ciple of  it  may  be  extended  to  many  other  things.  No 
one  has  a  right  to  be  entertained  gratis  in  society ;  he 
must  expend  if  he  wishes  to  enjoy.  Conversation, 
cc 


450  WORKS   OF  MRS.    BARBAULD. 

particularly,  is  a  picnic  feast,  where  every  one  is  to 
contribute  something,  according  to  his  genius  and 
ability.  Different  talents  and  acquirements  compose 
the  different  dishes  of  entertainment,  and  the  greater 
variety  the  better;  but  every  one  must  bring  some- 
thing, for  society  will  not  tolerate  any  one  long  who 
lives  wholly  at  the  expense  of  his  neighbors.  Did  not 
you  observe  how  agreeably  we  were  entertained  at 
Lady  Isabella's  party  last  night  ? 

Yes :  one  of  the  young  ladies  sung,  and  another 
exhibited  her  drawings  ;  and  a  gentleman  told  some 
very  good  stories. 

True :  another  lady  who  is  very  much  in  the  fashion- 
able world  gave  us  a  great  deal  of  anecdote  ;  Dr.  E., 
who  is  just  returned  from  the  Continent,  gave  us  an 
interesting  account  of  the  state  of  Germany;  and  in 
another  part  of  the  room  a  cluster  was  gathered  round 
an  Edinburgh  student  and  a  young  Oxonian,  who  were 
holding  a  lively  debate  on  the  power  of  galvanism. 
But  Lady  Isabella  herself  was  the  charm  of  the  party. 

I  think  she  talked  very  little ;  and  I  do  not  recollect 
anything  she  said  which  was  particularly  striking. 

That  is  true.  But  it  was  owing  to  her  address  and 
attention  to  her  company  that  others  talked  and  were 
heard  by  turns ;  that  the  modest  were  encouraged  and 
drawn  out,  and  those  inclined  to  be  noisy  restrained 
and  kept  in  order.     She  blended  and  harmonized  the 


picnic.  451 

talents  of  each;  brought  those  together  who  were 
likely  to  be  agreeable  to  each  other,  and  gave  us  no 
more  of  herself  than  was  necessary  to  set  off  others. 
I  noticed  particularly  her  good  offices  to  an  accom- 
plished but  very  bashful  lady  and  a  reserved  man  of 
science,  who  wished  much  to  be  known  to  one  another, 
but  who  would  never  have  been  so  without  her  intro- 
duction. As  soon  as  she  had  fairly  engaged  them 
in  an  interesting  conversation,  she  left  them,  regard- 
less of   her   own   entertainment,    and   seated    herself 

by  poor  Mr. ,  purely  because  he  was  sitting  in  a 

corner  and  no  one  attended  to  him.  You  know  that 
in  chemical  preparation  two  substances  often  require 
a  third  to  enable  them  to  mix  and  unite  together. 
Lady  Isabella  possesses  this  amalgamating  power :  this 
is  what  she  brings  to  the  picnic.  I  should  add,  that 
two  or  three  times  I  observed  she  dexterously  changed 
topics,  and  suppressed  stories  which  were  likely  to 
bear  hard  on  the  profession  or  connections  of  some  of 
the  company.  In  short,  the  party  which  was  so  agree- 
able under  her  harmonizing  influence  would  have  had 
quite  a  different  aspect  without  her.  These  merits, 
however,  might  easily  escape  a  young  observer.     But 

I  dare  say  you  did  not  fail  to  notice  Sir  Henry  B 's 

lady,  who  was  declaiming  with  so  much  enthusiasm, 
in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  gentlemen  which  she  had 
drawn  round  her,  upon  the  beau  ideal. 


452  WORKS   OF   MRS.   BAR_BAULD. 

No,  indeed,  mamma,  I  never  heard  so  much  fire  and 
feeling :  and  what  a  flow  of  eloquent  language  !  I  do 
not  wonder  her  eloquence  was  so  much  admired. 

She  has  a  great  deal  of  eloquence  and  taste :  she  has 
travelled,  and  is  acquainted  with  the  best  works  of  art. 
I  am  not  sure,  however,  whether  the  gentlemen  were 
admiring  most  her  declamation,  or  the  fine  turn  of  her 
hands  and  arms.  She  has  a  different  attitude  for  every 
sentiment.  Some  observations  which  she  made  upon 
the  beauty  of  statues  seemed  to  me  to  go  to  the  verge 
of  what  a  modest  female  will  allow  herself  to  say  upon 
such  subjects,  —  but  she  has  travelled.  She  was  sen- 
sible that  she  could  not  fail  to  gain  by  the  conversation 
while  beauty  of  form  was  the  subject  of  it. 

Pray  what  did ,  the  great  poet,  bring  to  the  pic- 
nic, for  I  think  he  hardly  opened  his  mouth  ? 

He  brought  his  fame.  Many  would  be  gratified  with 
merely  seeing  him  who  had  entertained  them  in  their 
closets;  and  he  who  had  so  entertained  them  had  a 
right  to  be  himself  entertained  in  that  way  which  he 
had  no  talent  for  joining  in.  Let  every  one,  I  repeat, 
bring  to  the  entertainment  something  of  the  best  he 
possesses,  and  the  picnic  table  will  seldom  fail  to  afford 
a  plentiful  banquet. 


LETTER   FROM   GRIMALKIN   TO   SELIMA.  453 


LETTER  FROM  GRIMALKIN  TO  SELIMA. 

MY  DEAR  SELIMA,  —  As  you  are  now  going 
to  quit  the  fostering  cares  of  a  mother,  to  enter, 
young  as  you  are,  into  the  wide  world,  and  conduct 
yourself,  by  your  owri  prudence,  I  cannot  forbear  giving 
you  some  parting  advice  in  this  important  era  of  your 
life. 

Your  extreme  youth,  and,  permit  me  to  add,  the  gid- 
diness incident  to  that  period,  make  me  particularly 
anxious  for  your  welfare.  In  the  first  place,  then,  let 
me  beg  you  to  remember  that  life  is  not  to  be  spent 
in  running  after  your  own  tail.  Remember  you  were 
sent  into  the  world  to  catch  rats  and  mice.  It  is  for 
this  you  are  furnished  with  sharp  claws,  whiskers  to 
improve  your  scent,  and  with  such  an  elasticity  and 
spring  in  your  limbs.  Never  lose  sight  of  this  great 
end  of  your  existence.  When  you  and  your  sister  are 
jumping  over  my  back  and  kicking  and  scratching  one 
another's  noses,  you  are  indulging  the  propensities  of 
3^our  nature,  and  perfecting  yourselves  in  agility  and 
dexterity ;  but  remember  that  these  frolics  are  only 
preparatory  to  the  grand  scene  of  action.     Life  is  long, 


454  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

but  youth  is  short.  The  gayety  of  the  kitten  will  most 
assuredly  go  off.  In  a  few  months,  nay,  even  weeks, 
those  spirits  and  that  playfulness,  which  now  exhilarate 
all  who  behold  you,  will  subside ;  and  I  beg  you  to 
reflect  how  contemptible  you  will  be,  if  you  should 
have  the  gravity  of  an  old  cat  without  that  usefulness 
which  alone  can  insure  respect  and  protection  for  your 
maturer  years. 

In  the  first  place,  my  dear  child,  obtain  a  command 
over  your  appetites,  and  take  care  that  no  tempting 
opportunity  ever  induces  you  to  make  free  with  the 
pantry  or  larder  of  your  mistress.  You  may  possibly 
slip  in  and  out  without  observation ;  you  may  lap  a  lit- 
tle cream  or  run  away  with  a  chop  without  its  being 
missed ;  but,  depend  upon  it,  such  practices  sooner  or 
later  will  be  found  out ;  and  if  in  a  single  instance  you 
are  discovered,  everything  which  is  missing  will  be 
charged  upon  you.  If  Betty  or  Mrs.  Susan  chooses  to 
regale  herself  with  a  cold  breast  of  chicken  which  was 
set  by  for  supper,  —  you  will  have  clawed  it ;  or  a  rasp- 
berry cream,  —  you  will  have  lapped  it.  Xor  is  this 
all.  If  you  have  once  thrown  down  a  single  cup  in 
your  eagerness  to  get  out  of  the  store-room,  every  china 
plate  and  dish  that  is  ever  broken  in  the  house,  you 
will  have  broken  it ;  and  though  your  back  promises  to 
be  pretty  broad,  it  will  not  be  broad  enough  for  all  the 
mischief  that  will  be  laid  upon  it.  Honesty,  you  will 
find,  is  the  best  policy. 


LETTER   FROM    GRIMALKIN   TO   SELIMA.  455 

Kemember  that  the  true  pleasures  of  life  consist  in 
the  exertion  of  our  own  powers.  If  you  were  to  feast 
every  day  upon  roasted  partridges,  from  off  Dresden 
china,  and  dip  your  whiskers  in  syllabubs  and  creams, 
it  could  never  give  you  such  true  enjoyment  as  the 
commonest  food  procured  by  the  labor  of  your  own 
paws.  \Y~hen  you  have  once  tasted  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  catching  and  playing  with  a  mouse,  yon 
will  despise  the  gratification  of  artificial  dainties. 

I  do  not  with  some  moralists  call  cleanliness  a  half 
virtue  only.  Remember  it  is  one  of  the  most  essential 
to  your  sex  and  station  ;  and  if  ever  yon  should  fail  in 
it,  I  sincerely  hope  Mrs.  Susan  will  bestow  upon  you  a 
good  whipping. 

Pray  do  not  spit  at  strangers  who  do  you  the  honor 
to  take  notice  of  you.  It  is  very  uncivil  behavior,  and 
I  have  often  wondered  that  kittens  of  any  breeding 
should  be  guilty  of  it. 

Avoid  thrusting  your  nose  into  every  closet  and  cup- 
board, —  unless  indeed  you  smell  mice ;  in  which  case 
it  is  very  becoming. 

Should  you  live,  as  I  hope  you  will,  to  see  the  chil- 
dren of  your  patroness,  you  must  prepare  yourself  to 
exercise  that  branch  of  fortitude  which  consists  in 
patient  endurance ;  for  yon  must  expect  to  be  lugged 
about,  pinched,  and  pulled  by  the  tail,  and  played  a 
thousand  tricks  with,  all  which  you  must  bear  without 


456  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

putting  out  a  claw ;  for  you  may  depend  upon  it,  if 
you  attempt  the  least  retaliation  you  will  forever  lose 
the  favor  of  your  mistress. 

Should  there  be  favorites  in  the  house,  such  as  tame 
birds,  dormice,  or  a  squirrel,  great  will  be  your  tempta- 
tions. In  such  a  circumstance,  if  the  cage  hangs  low 
and  the  door  happens  to  be  left  open,  to  govern  your 
appetite  I  know  will  be  a  difficult  task.  But  remem- 
ber that  nothing  is  impossible  to  the  governing  mind ; 
and  that  there  are  instances  upon  record  of  cats  who 
in  the  exercise  of  self-government  have  overcome  the 
strongest  propensities  of  their  nature. 

If  you  would  make  yourself  agreeable  to  your  mis- 
tress, you  must  observe  times  and  seasons.  You  must 
not  startle  her  by  jumping  upon  her  in  a  rude  manner ; 
and  above  all,  be  sure  to  sheathe  your  claws  when  you 
lay  your  paw  upon  her  lap. 

You  have,  like  myself,  been  brought  up  in  the  coun- 
try, and  I  fear  you  may  regret  the  amusements  it 
affords;  such  as  catching  butterflies,  climbing  trees, 
and  watching  birds  from  the  windows,  which  I  have 
done  with  great  delight  for  a  whole  morning  together. 
But  these  pleasures  are  not  essential.  A  town  life  has 
also  its  gratifications.  You  may  make  many  pleasant 
acquaintances  in  the  neighboring  courts  and  alleys.  A 
concert  upon  the  tiles  in  a  fine  moonlight  summer's 
evening  may  at  once  gratify  your  ear  and  your  social 


LETTER  FROM  GRIMALKIN  TO  SELIMA.      457 

feelings.  Rats  and  mice  are  to  be  met  with  every- 
where ;  and  at  any  rate  you  have  reason  to  be  thankful 
that  so  creditable  a  situation  has  been  found  for  you, 
without  which  you  must  have  followed  the  fate  of  your 
poor  brothers,  and  with  a  stone  about  your  neck  have 
been  drowned  in  the  next  pond. 

It  is  only  when  you  have  kittens  yourself  that  you 
will  be  able  to  appreciate  the  cares  of  a  mother.  How 
unruly  have  you  been  when  I  wanted  to  wash  your 
face !  how  undutiful  in  galloping  about  the  room 
instead  of  coming  immediately  when  I  called  you ! 
But  nothing  can  subdue  the  affections  of  a  parent. 
Being  grave  and  thoughtful  in  my  nature,  and  having 
the  advantage  of  residing  in  a  literary  family,  I  have 
mused  deeply  on  the  subject  of  education;  I  have 
pored  by  moonlight  over  Locke  and  Edgeworth  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  the  laws  of  association ;  but  after 
much  cogitation  I  am  only  convinced  of  this,  that  kit- 
tens will  be  kittens,  and  old  cats  old  cats.  May  you, 
my  dear  child,  be  an  honor  to  all  your  relations,  and  to 
the  whole  feline  race.  May  you  see  your  descendants 
of  the  fiftieth  generation  ;  and  when  you  depart  this 
life,  may  the  lamentations  of  your  kindred  exceed  in 
pathos  the  melody  of  an  Irish  howL 

Signed  by  the  paw  of  your  affectionate  mother, 

Grimalkin. 

VOL.    II.  20 


458  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 


ALLEGORY  ON   SLEEP. 

MY  DEAR  MISS  D  ****,  —  The  affection  I 
bear  you,  and  the  sincere  regard  I  have  for  your 
welfare,  will,  I  hope,  excuse  the  liberty  I  am  going  to 
take  in  remonstrating  against  the  indulgence  of  a  too 
partial  affection  which  I  see  with  sorrow  is  growing 
upon  you  every  day. 

You  start  at  the  imputation :  but  hear  me  with 
patience ;  and  if  your  own  heart,  your  own  reason, 
does  not  bear  witness  to  what  I  say,  then  blame  my 
suspicions  and  my  freedom. 

But  need  I  say  much  to  convince  you  of  the  power 
this  favored  lover,  whose  name  I  will  not  mention,  has 
over  you,  when  at  this  very  moment  he  absorbs  all 
your  faculties,  and  engrosses  every  power  of  your  mind 
to  such  a  degree  as  leaves  it  doubtful  whether  this 
friendly  admonition  will  reach  your  ear,  lost  as  you  are 
in  the  soft  enchantment  ?  Is  it  not  evident  that  in 
his  presence  you  are  dead  to  everything  around  you  ? 
The  voice  of  your  nearest  friend,  your  most  sprightly 
and  once-loved  amusements,  cannot  draw  your  atten- 
tion ;  you  breathe,  you  exist,  only  for  him.     And  when 


ALLEGORY   ON   SLEEP.  459 

at  length  he  has  left  you,  do  not  I  behold  you  languid, 
pale,  bearing  in  your  eyes  and  your  whole  carriage  the 
marks  of  his  power  over  you  ?  When  we  parted  last 
night,  did  not  I  see  you  impatient  to  sink  into  his 
arms  ?  Have  you  never  been  caught  reclined  on  his 
bosom,  on  a  soft  carpet  of  flowers,  on  the  banks  of  a 
purling  stream,  where  the  murmuring  of  the  waters, 
the  whispering  of  the  trees,  the  silence  and  solitude 
of  the  place,  and  the  luxurious  softness  of  everything 
around  you,  favored  his  approach  and  disposed  you  to 
listen  to  his  addresses  ?  Nay,  in  that  sacred  temple 
which  ought  to  be  dedicated  to  higher  affections,  has 
he  never  stolen  insensibly  on  your  mind,  and  sealed 
your  ears  against  the  voice  of  the  preacher,  though 
never  so  persuasive  ?  Has  not  his  influence  over  you 
greatly  increased  within  these  few  weeks  ?  Does  he 
not  every  day  demand,  do  you  not  every  day  sacrifice 
to  him,  a  larger  portion  of  your  time  ? 

Not  content  with  your  devoting  to  him  those  hours 

"When  business,  noise,  and  day  are  fled," 

does  he  not  encroach  upon  the  morning  watches,  break 
in  upon  your  studies,  and  detain  your  mind  from  the 
pursuit  of  knowledge  and  the  pursuit  of  pleasure, — 
of  all  pleasure  but  the  enervating  indulgence  of  your 
passion  ? 

Diana,  who  still  wishes  to  number  you  in  her  train, 


460  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

invites  you  to  join  in  her  lively  sports ;  for  you  Aurora 
bathes  the  new-born  rose  in  dew,  and  streaks  the  clouds 
with  gold  and  crimson ;  and  Youth  and  Health  offer  a 
thousand  innocent  pleasures  to  your  acceptance. 

And,  let  me  ask  you,  what  can  you  find  in  the  com- 
pany of  him  with  whom  you  are  thus  enamored,  to 
make  you  amends  for  all  that  you  give  up  for  his  sake? 
Does  he  entertain  you  with  anything  but  the  most 
incoherent  rhapsodies,  the  most  romantic  and  visionary 
tales  ?  To  believe  the  strange,  improbable,  and  con- 
tradictory things  he  tells  you  requires  a  credulity 
beyond  that  of  an  infant.  If  he  has  ever  spoken 
truth,  it  is  mixed  with  so  much  falsehood  and  obscurity 
that  it  is  estimated  the  certain  sign  of  a  weak  mind  to 
be  much  affected  with  what  he  says. 

As  I  wish  to  draw  a  true  portrait,  I  will  by  no  means 
disguise  his  good  qualities ;  and  shall  therefore  allow 
that  he  is  a  friend  to  the  unhappy  and  the  friendless, 
that  his  breast  is  the  only  pillow  for  misfortune  to 
repose  on,  and  that  his  approaches  are  so  gentle  and 
insinuating  as  in  some  moments  to  be  almost  irresist- 
ible. If  he  is  at  all  disposed  to  partiality,  it  is  in 
favor  of  the  poor  and  mean,  with  whom  he  is  generally 
thought  to  associate  more  readily  than  with  the  rich. 
Yet  he  dispenses  favors  to  all :  and  those  who  are  most 
disposed  to  rebel  against  his  power  and  treat  him  with 
contempt  could  never  render  themselves  quite  inde- 
pendent of  him. 


ALLEGORY  ON   SLEEP.  461 

He  is  of  a  very  ancient  family,  and  came  in  long 
before  the  Conquest.  He  has  a' half-brother,  somewhat 
younger  than  himself,  who  has  made  his  name  very 
famous  in  the  world :  he  is  a  tall,  meagre  figure,  with  a 
ghastly  air  and  a  most  forbidding  countenance ;  he 
delights  in  slaughter,  and  has  destroyed  more  men  than 
Caesar  or  Alexander. 

He  who  is  the  subject  of  my  letter  is  fond  of  peace, 
sleek  and  corpulent,  with  a  mild  heavy  eye  and  a  phys- 
iognomy perfectly  placid ;  yet  with  all  this  opposition 
of  feature  and  character,  there  is  such  a  resemblance 
between  them  (as  often  happens  in  family  likenesses), 
that  in  some  lights  and  attitudes  you  can  scarce  dis- 
tinguish the  one  from  the  other.   . 

To  finish  the  description  of  your  lover,  —  he  is  gen- 
erally crowned  with  flowers,  but  of  the  most  languid 
kind,  such  as  poppies  and  cowslips ;  and  he  is  attended 
by  a  number  of  servants,  thin  and  light-footed,  to 
whom  he  does  not  give  the  same  livery ;  for  some  are 
dressed  in  the  gayest,  others  in  the  most  gloomy  habits 
imaginable,  but  all  fantastic. 

He  is  subject  to  many  strange  antipathies,  and  as 
strange  likings.  The  warbling  of  the  lark,  to  others 
so  agreeable,  is  to  him  the  harshest  discord,  and  Peter 
could  not  start  more  at  the  crowing  of  a  cock.  The 
slightest  accident,  the  cry  of  an  infant,  a  mouse  behind 
the  wainscot,  will  oftentimes  totally  disconcert  and  put 


462  WORKS   OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

him  to  flight,  and  at  other  times  he  will  not  regard  the 
loudest  thunder.  His  favorite  animal  is  the  dormouse, 
and  Ins  music  the  dropping  of  water,  the  low  tinkling 
of  a  distant  bell,  the  humming  of  bees,  and  the  hollow 
sound  of  the  wind  rustling  through  the  trees. 

But  I  have  now  said  enough  to  let  you  into  the  true 
character  of  this  powerful  enchanter.  You  will  answer, 
I  know,  to  all  this,  that  he  begins  by  enslaving  every 
faculty  that  might  resist  him,  and  that  his  power  must 
be  already  broken  before  Eeason  can  exert  herself.  You 
will  perhaps  likewise  tell  me  (and  I  must  acknowledge 
the  justice  of  the  retort)  that  I  myself,  though  my 
situation  affords  a  thousand  reasons. to  resist  him  which 
do  not  take  place  with  you,  have  been  but  too  sensible 
of  his  attractions. 

With  blushes  I  confess  the  charge.  At  this  moment, 
however,  the  charm  is  broken,  and  Eeason  has  her  full 
empire  over  me.  Let  me  exhort  you  therefore  .... 
But  why  exhort  you  to  what  is  already  done  ?  for  if  this 
letter  has  made  its  way  to  your  ear,  if  your  eye  is  now 
perusing  its  contents,  the  spell  is  dissolved,  and  you  are 
no  longer  sunk  in  the  embraces  of  Sleep. 


ON  EXPENSE.  463 


ON  EXPENSE 


A  DIALOGUE. 


YOU  seem  to  be  in  a  revery,  Harriet ;  or  are  you 
tired  with  your  long  bustling  walk  through  the 
streets  of  London  ? 

Not  at  all,  papa;  but  I  was  wondering  at  some- 
thing. 

A  grown  person  even  cannot  walk  through  such  a 
metropolis  without  meeting  with  many  things  to  won- 
der at.  But  let  us  hear  the  particular  subject  of  your 
admiration  j  was  it  the  height  and  circumference  of  St. 
Paul's,  or  the  automatons,  or  the  magical  effect  of  the 
Panorama  that  has  most  struck  you  ? 

No,  papa ;  but  I  was  wondering  how  you  who  have 
always  so  much  money  in  your  pockets  can  go  through 
the  streets  of  London,  all  full  of  fine  shops,  and  not 
buy  things ;  I  am  sure  if  I  had  money  I  could  not  help 
spending  it  all. 

As  you  never  have  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  it  is 
given  you  only  to  please  your  fancy  with,  there  is  no 
harm  in  your  spending  it  in  anything  you  have  a  mind 
to;  but  it  is  very  well  for  you  and  me  too  that  the 


464  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

money  does  not  burn  in  my  pocket  as  it  does  in 
yours. 

No,  to  be  sure  you  would  not  spend  all  your  money 
in  those  shops,  because  you  must  buy  bread  and  meat ; 
but  you  might  spend  a  good  deaL  But  you  walk  past 
just  as  if  you  did  not  see  them :  you  never  stop  to 
give  one  look.  Now  tell  me  really,  papa,  can  you 
help  wishing  for  all  those  pretty  things  that  stand  in 
the  shop  windows  ? 

For  all !  Would  you  have  me  wish  for  all  of  them  ? 
But  I  will  answer  you  seriously.  I  do  walk  by  these 
tempting  shops  without  wishing  for  anything,  and  in- 
deed in  general  without  seeing  them. 

"Well,  that  is  because  you  are  a  man,  and  you  do  not 
care  for  what  I  admire  so  very  much. 

No,  there  you  are  mistaken ;  for,  though  I  may  not 
admire  them  so  very  much  as  you  say  you  do,  there  are 
a  vast  number  of  things  sold  in  London  which  it  would 
give  me  great  pleasure  to  have  in  my  possession.  I 
should  greatly  like  one  of  Dollond's  best  reflecting 
telescopes.  I  could  lay  out  a  great  deal  of  money,  if 
I  had  it  to  spare,  in  books  of  botany  and  natural 
history.  Nay,  I  assure  you  I  should  by  no  means  be 
indifferent  to  the  fine  fruit  exposed  at  the  fruit- 
shops  ;  the  plums  with  the  blue  upon  them  as  if 
they  were  just  taken  from  the  tree,  the  luscious 
hot-house    grapes,    and    the    melons   and   pine-apples. 


ON  EXPENSE.  465 

Believe  me,  I  could  eat  these  things  with  as  good  a 
relish  as  you  could. 

Then  how  can  you  help  buying  them,  when  you  have 
money ;  and  especially,  papa,  how  can  you  help  think- 
ing about  them  and  wishing  for  them  ? 

London  is  the  best  place  in  the  world  to  cure  a 
person  of  extravagance,  and  even  of  extravagant  wishes. 
I  see  so  many  costly  things  here  which  I  know  I  could 
not  buy,  even  if  I  were  to  lay  out  all  the  money  I  have 
in  the  world,  that  I  never  think  of  buying  anything 
which  I  do  not  really  want.  Our  furniture,  you  know, 
is  old  and  plain.  Perhaps  if  there  were  only  a  little 
better  furniture  to  be  had,  I  might  be  tempted  to 
change  it ;  but  when  I  see  houses  where  a  whole  for- 
tune is  laid  out  in  decorating  a  set  of  apartments,  I  am 
content  with  chairs  whose  only  use  is  to  sit  down  upon, 
and  tables  that  were  in  fashion  half  a  century  ago.  In 
short,  I  have  formed  the  habit  of  self-government,  one 
of  the  most  useful  powers  a  man  can  be  possessed  of. 
Self-government  belongs  only  to  civilized  man,  —  a 
savage  has  no  idea  of  it.  A  North  American  Indian 
is  temperate  when  he  has  no  liquor;  but  as  soon  as 
liquor  is  within  his  reach,  he  invariably  drinks  till  he 
is  first  furious  and  then  insensible.  He  possesses  no 
power  over  himself,  and  he  literally  can  no  more 
help  it  than  iron  can  help  being  drawn  by  the  load- 
stone. 

20*  DD 


466  WORKS    OF   MRS.    BARBAULD. 

But  he  seldom  gets  liquor,  so  lie  has  not  a  habit  of 
drinking. 

You  are  right ;  he  has  not  the  habit  of  drinking,  but 
he  wants  the  habit  of  self-control:  this  can  only  be 
gained  by  being  often  in  the  midst  of  temptations,  and 
resisting  them.  This  is  the  wholesome  discipline  of 
the  mind.  The  first  time  a  man  denies  hirnself  any- 
thing he  likes  and  which*  it  is  in  his  power  to  procure, 
there  is  a  great  struggle  within  him,  and  uneasy  wishes 
will  disturb  for  some  time  the  tranquillity  of  his  mind. 
He  has  gained  the  victory,  but  the  enemy  dies  hard. 
The  next  time  he  does  not  wish  so  much,  but  he  still 
thinks  about  it.  After  a  while  he  does  not  think  of 
it ;  he  does  not  even  see  it.  A  person  of  moderate 
fortune,  like  myself,  who  lives  in  a  gay  and  splendid 
metropolis,  is  accustomed  to  see  every  day  a  hun- 
dred things  which  it  would  be  madness  to  think  of 
buying. 

Yes ;  but  if  you  were  very  rich,  papa,  —  if  you  were 
a  lord  ? 

Ko  man  is  so  rich  as  to  buy  everything  his  un- 
restrained fancy  might  prompt  him  to  desire.  Hounds 
and  horses,  pictures  and  statues  and  buildings,  will 
exhaust  any  fortune.  There  is  hardly  any  one  taste 
so  simple  or  innocent  but  what  a  man  might  spend 
his  whole  estate  in  it,  if  he  were  resolved  to  gratify  it 
to  the  utmost.     A  nobleman  may  just  as  easily  ruin 


ON  EXPENSE.  467 

himself  by  extravagance  as  a  private  man,  and  indeed 
many  do  so. 

But  if  you  were  a  king  ? 

If  I  were  a  king,  the  mischief  would  be  much 
greater;  for  I  should  ruin  not  only  myself,  but  my 
subjects. 

A  king  could  not  hurt  his  subjects,  however,  with 
buying  toys  or  things  to  eat. 

Indeed,  but  he  might.  What  is  a  diamond  but  a 
mere  toy  ?  but  a  large  diamond  is  an  object  of  princely 
expense.  That  called  the  Pitt  diamond  was  valued  at 
£  1,000,000.  It  was  offered  to  George  the  Second,  but 
he  wisely  thought  it  too  dear.  The  dress  of  the  queen 
of  France  was  thought  by  the  prudent  decker  a  serious 
object  of  expense  in  the  revenues  of  that  large  king- 
dom; and  her  extravagance  and  that  of  the  king's 
brothers  had  a  great  share  in  bringing  on  the  calamities 
of  the  kingdom.  As  to  eating,  you  could  gratify  your- 
self with  laying  out  a  shilling  or  two  at  the  pastry- 
cook's ;  but  Prince  Potemkin,  who  had  the.  revenues 
of  the  mighty  empire  of  Russia  at  command,  could 
not  please  his  appetite  without  his  dish  of  sterlet  soup, 
which  cost  every  time  it  was  made  above  thirty  pounds ; 
and  he  would  send  one  of  his  aids-de-camp  an  errand 
from  Yassy  to  Petersburg,  a  distance  of  nearly  seven 
hundred  miles,  to  fetch  him  a  tureen  of  it.  He  once 
bought  all  the  cherries  of  a  tree  in  a  greenhouse  at 


468  WORKS   OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 

about  half  a  crown  apiece.  The  Roman  empire  was 
far  richer  than  the  Russian,  and  in  the  time  of  the 
emperors  was  all  under  the  power  of  one  man.  Yet 
when  they  had  such  gluttons  as.  Yitellius  and  Helio- 
gabalus,  the  revenue  of  whole  provinces  was  hardly 
sufficient  to  give  them  a  dinner :  they  had  tongues  of 
nightingales,  and  such  kind  of  dishes,  the  value  of 
which  was  merely  in  the  expense. 

I  think  the  throat  of  the  poor  little  nightingales 
might  have  given  them  much  more  pleasure  than  the 
tongue. 

True ;  but  the  proverb  says,  The  belly  has  no  ears. 
In  modern  Rome,  Pope  Adrian,  a  frugal  Dutchman, 
complained  of  the  expense  his  predecessor,  Leo  X.,  was 
at  in  peacock  sausages.  The  expenses  of  Louis  XIV. 
were  of  a  more  elegant  kind ;  he  was  fond  of  fine  tap- 
estry, mirrors,  gardens,  statues,  magnificent  palaces. 
These  tastes  were  becoming  in  a  great  king,  and  would 
have  been  serviceable  to  his  kingdom  if  kept  within 
proper  limits  ;  but  he  could  not  deny  himself  anything, 
however  extravagant,  that  it  came  in  his  mind  to  wish 
for,  and,  indeed,  would  have  imagined  it  beneath  him 
to  think  at  all  about  the  expense ;  and  therefore  while 
he  was  throwing  up  water  fifty  feet  high  at  his  palaces 
of  Versailles  and  Marli,  and  spouting  it  out  of  the 
mouths  of  dolphins  and  tritons,  thousands  of  his  people 
in  the  distant  provinces  were  wanting  bread. 


ON   EXPENSE.  469 

I  am  sure  I  would  not  have  done  so  to  please  my 
fancy. 

Nor  he  neither,  perhaps,  if  he  had  seen  them ;  but 
these  poor  men  and  their  families  were  a  great  way  off, 
and  all  the  people  about  him  looked  pleased  and 
happy,  and  said  he  was  the  most  generous  prince  the 
world  had  ever  seen. 

Well,  but  if  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp  I  might  have 
everything  I  wished  for. 

I  am  glad  at  least  I  have  driven  you  to  fairyland. 
You  might,  no  doubt,  with  the  lamp  of  Aladdin,  or 
Fortunatus's  purse,  have  everything  you  wished  for ; 
but  do  you  know  what  the  consequences  would  be  ? 

Very  pleasant,  I  should  think. 

On  the  contrary,  you  would  become  whimsical  and 
capricious,  and  would  soon  grow  tired  of  everything. 
We  do  not  receive  pleasure  long  from  anything  that  is 
not  bought  with  our  own  labor ;  this  is  one  of  those 
permanent  laws  of  nature  which  man  cannot  change, 
and  therefore  pleasure  and  exertion  will  never  be 
separated  even  in  imagination  in  a  well-regulated 
mind.  I  could  tell  you  of  a  couple  who  received 
more  true  enjoyment  of  their  fortune  than  Aladdin 
himself. 

Pray  do. 

The  couple  I  am  thinking  of  lived  about  a  century 
ago  in  one  of  our  rich  trading  towns,  which  was  then 


470  WORKS   OF  MRS.   BARBAULD. 

just  beginning  to  rise  by  manufacturing  tapes  and 
inkle.  They  had  married  because  they  loved  one 
another ;  they  had  very  little  to  begin  with,  but  they 
were  not  afraid,  because  they  were  industrious.  When 
the  husband  had  come  to  be  the  richest  merchant  in 
the  place,  he  took  great  pleasure  in  talking  over  his 
small  beginnings ;  but  lie  used  always  to  add,  that, 
poor  as  he  was  when  he  married,  he  would  not  have 
taken  a  thousand  pounds  for  the  table  his  dame  and  he 
'  ate  their  dinner  from. 

What !  had  he  so  costly  a  table  before  he  was  grown 
rich? 

On  the  contrary,  he  had  no  table  at  all ;  and  his  wife 
and  he  used  to  sit  close  together,  and  place  their  dish 
of  pottage  upon  their  knees ;  their  knees  were  the 
table.  They  soon  got  forward  in  the  world,  as  indus- 
trious people  generally  do,  and  were  enabled  to  pur- 
chase one  thing  after  another ;  first,  perhaps,  a  deal 
table  ;  after  a  while  a  mahogany  one ;  then  a  sumptu- 
ous sideboard.  At  first  they  sat  on  wTooden  benches ; 
then  they  had  two  or  three  rush-bottomed  chairs ;  and 
when  they  were  rich  enough  to  have  an  arm-chair  for 
the  husband  and  another  for  a  friend,  to  smoke  their 
pipes  in,  how  magnificent  they  would  think  them- 
selves !  At  first  they  would  treat  a  neighbor  with  a 
slice  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  draught  of  beer;  by 
degrees   with   a  good  joint   and   a   pudding;   and   at 


ON   EXPENSE.  471 

length  with  all  the  delicacies  of  a  fashionable  enter- 
tainment; and  all  along  they  would  be  able  to  say, 
"  The  blessing  of  God  upon  our  own  industry  has  pro- 
cured us  these  things."  By  this  means  they  would  rel- 
ish every  gradation  and  increase  of  their  enjoyments ; 
whereas  the  man  born  to  a  fortune  swallows  his  pleas- 
ures whole,  he  does  not  taste  them.  Another  inconven- 
ience that  attends  the  man  who  is  born  rich  is,  that  he 
has  not  early  learned  to  deny  himself.  If  I  were  a 
nobleman,  though  I  could  not  buy  everything  I  might 
fancy  for  myself,  yet  playthings  for  you  would  not 
easily  ruin  me,  and  you  would  probably  have  a  great 
deal  of  pocket-money  ;  and  you  would  grow  up  with  a 
confirmed  habit  of  expense,  and  no  ingenuity,,  for  you 
would  never  try  to  make  anything,  or  to  find  out 
some  substitute  if  you  could  not  get  just  the  thing 
you  wanted.  That  is  a  very  fine  cabinet  of  shells 
which  the  young  heiress  showed  you  the  other  day ; 
it  is  perfectly  arranged  and  mounted  with  the  ut- 
most elegance,  and  yet  I  am  sure  she  has  not  half 
the  pleasure  in  it  which  you  have  had  with  those 
little  drawers  of  shells  of  your  own  collecting,  aided 
by  the  occasional  contributions  of  friends,  which  you 
have  arranged  for  yourself,  and  display  with  such  tri- 
umph. And  now,  to  show  you  that  I  do  sometimes 
think  of  the  pleasures  of  my  dear  girl,  here  is  a  play- 
thing for  you  which  I  bought  while  you  were  chat- 


472  WORKS    OF    MRS.    BARBAULD. 

ting  at  the  door  of  a  shop  with  one  of  your   youn^ 
friends. 

A  magic-lantern  !  How  delightful  S  0  thank  you, 
papa  !  Edward,  come  and  look  at  my  charming  magic- 
lantern. 


THE   END. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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